Hamish
by TakemylovedowntoVioletHill
Summary: Using valeria2067's character Hamish Malcolm Watson-Holmes, a series of short stories chronicling the boys' most lengthy and tedious adventure yet, parenthood.
1. Selection

**AN: Hamish Malcolm Watson-Holmes is not my original character, he is a very popular OC from valeria2067 on tumblr. He also has his own blog if you wish to see it, simply go to hamish-watson-holmes on tumblr. Please review, thanks :)**

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><p>Sherlock buttoned up his shirt, looking at himself in the mirror of the living room while John stood in the kitchen, drinking a cup of tea. The air was filled with nervous anticipation as the consulting detective looked over to his doctor.<p>

"John, it's going to be alright… there's really nothing to be worried about." The pale man attempted to comfort him but John looked irritable and shrugged off his reassurance.

"What if none of them like us? What if they think we're not good enough?" the soldier fretted, running a hand through his hair, rumpling it.

Sherlock swallowed his own worries and tried to look impatient. "You're being ridiculous, I didn't waste three hours of my morning cleaning this flat for some agency to tell us we're not good enough."

John eyed his cup of tea before putting it down on the counter with a sick look. "I've waited so long for this… what if they don't think we're devoted enough to being parents?" he was working himself into a frenzy, his foot now tapping frantically against the lino. Sherlock hadn't seen his husband so agitated for quite some time and he quickly strode across the flat to embrace his significant other.

"I don't see how that is possible, you excel in anything you put your mind to John and I don't think parenthood will be any different." Sherlock murmured against his shoulder.

The doctor drew in a shaky breath as the ringer sounded downstairs. Mrs. Hudson's quick steps opened the door and muffled words were exchanged. John's eyes were in danger of falling out of his head and his breathing was so shallow Sherlock fleetingly wondered if he'd pass out.

"Boys!" their landlady's voice yelled from down the steps. "They're here!"

"Ready?" Sherlock whispered against his better half's cheek. John weakly nodded and the consulting detective took his hand to lead him into the sitting room. "Bring them up Mrs. Hudson!"

Three women entered the flat, and both men were taken aback by how good a job Mycroft had done at locating such incredible likeliness's. The first woman was tall, with curly black hair that flowed down her back, striking blue eyes and high cheekbones. Her lips were heart shaped and an impish smirk seemed to be forever lingering on her face. The second was shorter; her hair was a subtle honey color, straight and short. Her frame wasn't nearly as graceful, but it seemed to carry its own elegance. Her nose was rounded and her skin the same tone as John's.

The two women could've been relatives of the men standing before them. The third however, had dark skin and cleared her throat loudly to stop the boys from gawking too hard at the guests. "Hello Mr. and Mr. Watson-Holmes, we've met before but allow me to introduce these two." She smiled amiably at the men before continuing. "This is Jordan," the tall one extended a hand, first to John, then to Sherlock. John shook it happily but Sherlock merely stared at it until she dropped it to her side awkwardly. "and this is Maddy. Both have been recruited through the help of your brother, Mr. Mycroft Holmes." The second offered no hand.

"Yes, it's splendid to meet you both. I just want you to know how grateful Sherlock and I are for you taking the time to consult with us. I assure you this is something we've both wanted for a very long time." John gushed, wringing his hands nervously as they all sat down. Sherlock said nothing, looking analytically at both, searching for any fault that would make them unfit for the job they had been recruited to do.

Jordan spoke first, her voice high and clear, with an intelligent ring to it. "Yes, I really hope I can help, Mr. Holmes's requirements were incredibly precise and I'm a little surprise I made it this far into the selection. There were originally twenty women, and to be honest I'm not sure how I made the cut-,"

"Are you saying this because you think you are not ready or able?" the detective interjected sharply. John looked appalled at his husband's outburst and gave him such a withering glare that Sherlock was caught off guard and shut his mouth, sulking.

"No, it's quite alright. I'd expect you to ask such a question. No, it's just that there were several who looked the same as me. Mr. Holmes said I had something the other's didn't but I don't really know what it is." Jordan then helped herself to a biscuit that John had laid out.

Maddy spoke next. Sherlock was immediately struck by how much her voice held the soothing quality John's had. It was like a gentle lullaby and he inclined his head forward to hear every word. "I'm also looking to help, and even if I do not get the job, I really wish you two the best."

The interview was continued with rather boring dialogue, Mycroft had made it entirely clear to the agency that they were perfectly capable men who would do wonderfully with a child and so in the end all they were doing was choosing from the two provided that day.

That night they talked it over, John considerably less stressed now that the interview was done with. Sherlock had put as much emphasis as he could on the fact that it was John's choice and John's choice alone. He had never wanted children, he had only agreed because it was the one thing that his husband truly wanted and Sherlock really couldn't stand to see him unhappy.

Of course, the detective was more than willing to help with the raising and upkeep but as far as emotional ties went, he couldn't see himself growing attached; his heart was entirely devoted to John and his work. He would care for the child because it was important to John, therefore important to him, nothing more.

"I really like Jordan." The doctor said as he ate his food, chewing decisively. "She's got your cheekbones…" John looked over to Sherlock, who was thumbing through a magazine.

Dissatisfaction stung the detective as he looked up. He really had been hoping that his husband would lean more towards the surrogate that resembled John, her voice had been so lovely. Jordan had seemed colder, less emotional… just like him. He didn't want any genetic connection to the baby, John didn't deserve a defective child, having his DNA in it meant it ran the risk of being an uncaring sociopath when it reached adulthood. "What about the other one?"

"She seems so… plain."

"Plain can be good John." He reminded gently. The doctor shook his head, taking another bite of his food.

"No, I want the baby to look like you a bit… since you refuse to allow us to use your-your-,"

"Sperm, John, that's the word you're looking for." John closed his eyes and stopped chewing for a second as Sherlock provided the necessary vocabulary. "And I refuse because I don't want a child that looks like me, you were a much more attractive infant as well."

John snorted. "Hardly, have you seen your baby photos? You had giant blue eyes and the most adorable head of curls I've ever seen." Sherlock frowned, pretending to be too engrossed in his magazine to listen to what his husband was saying. "What's wrong with having a baby that looks like you?"

"It's your child, it's going to call you Dad, and it's going to want you when it has nightmares… I'm not exactly a source of comfort, face it John."

John looked hurt. "It's _our_ child Sherlock."

"You know what I mean."

"Do I?" the doctor said, setting his now empty plate on the coffee table. "You don't seem to have any desire to be a parent at all and I can't help but wonder if I'm making a mistake. Is this just something you're going along with because you know I want a child? It's not too late to back down, we can still say no if you don't want to." Sherlock could sense the edginess.

The detective knew that if he said no then he would be causing John an incredible amount of pain, and he couldn't do that, definitely not. He smiled his best smile at John and shook his head in such a way that his head of unruly curls swayed. "No, John. I want this… I'm sorry, it's just a lot to process."

The soldier relaxed considerably and got up to wrap his arms around the shoulders of his husband and kiss his neck. "I'm sorry, I've been worrying myself into the ground. I don't want to accuse you of anything you just seem so distant lately, like this isn't something you want."

Sherlock bristled. "You want it, and therefore I want it." He said with an air of finality.

More silence followed until John spoke again. "I'll make a deal with you Sherlock."

The detective grew wary at the mention of deals. "Explain."

"I'll chose the surrogate and we'll mix our-our-,"

"Sperm?" Sherlock prompted, smirking as John winced.

"Yeah, that, and it'll be like a game of chance. A nine month guessing game." The consulting detective disliked how John was trying to coax him into this, but he knew that there was a hefty chance declining the offer could end up being disastrous.

He pressed a kiss into John's palm and tried his best to sound excited. "Sounds interesting."

His husband's grin widened as he jumped up and reached for his mobile. Sherlock looked up, confused. "What are you doing?"

"Calling Mycroft, we've got to see about getting ourselves a baby."


	2. Beginning

Sherlock hadn't ever been on the top levels of Saint Bart's and he now knew why. Sickness and pregnancy was everywhere and he absolutely loathed it.

John was dressed in his best jumper as he anxiously signed paperwork. Sherlock was counting tiles on the ceiling to pass the time. Jordan, the surrogate who was selected, was getting ready inside the room they were stationed outside of. Mycroft was fiddling with an umbrella across the hallway.

"Are you excited Sherlock?" his brother asked him, a mocking glint in his eyes.

"Yes, in fact, I think I'll go home and eat a slice of cake and ice cream to celebrate." The detective replied, smirking as Mycroft's smile slid off of his face to be replaced by a glower.

"Stop it you two, I won't have any of that ruining my day today." John stated, still signing paperwork, occasionally handing the clipboard over to Sherlock, who would add his information and signature wherever deemed necessary.

"Have you two thought of names?" Mycroft said, looking bored and slightly put off by John's earlier declaration.

Sherlock's mind went blank, was he supposed to think of names? "I-I hardly think it's crucial at this point of the process."

John looked up, first to his husband, then to his brother-in-law. "I liked the name Anne if it's a girl." He said. "As for boy names, well I was rather hoping we could borrow from the Holmes's line of ridiculously old English names."

Sherlock looked over at John, horrified. "What?" he demanded. "There's no way we're naming a child after any member of my family, I won't allow it."

John looked surprised. "Why not? I thought that your father's name would go nicely, perhaps then your name as the middle. Percival Sherlock Watson-Holmes? I like the sound of it."

Both of the Holmes brothers now looked mildly revolted. "John," Mycroft cut in. "Surely you have good strong Scottish names on your side of the family?"

"Something that won't make our son sound like a complete ponce." Sherlock added.

John reflected on his family line for a brief moment. "Well, there's John-,"

"A perfectly good name." the detective said.

"-Malcolm, David, Daniel, Craig, James… I just don't like any of them." The doctor said, returning to signing off the last of the sheets before getting up to hand them through the door for the doctor to look over.

"What about your middle name?" Sherlock asked, very serious about the no Holmes names matter. "Hamish is a perfectly acceptable first name."

John opened his mouth to speak but the door opened and Jordan, wearing a hospital gown, peaked out and looked at the three men. "Are you ready?" she asked, her eyes looked like just like Sherlock's, calculating how this would end up for them.

Mycroft stood first, looking at his brother and brother-in-law. "I actually must be getting back to the office but I wish you both the best in luck, and Sherlock, please call Mummy, she's very anxious to find out how this whole thing fairs. You know how long she's patiently been waiting for a grandchild." And with that he began walking towards the lift, swinging his umbrella as he went.

John took Sherlock's hand and stood, nodding. "We're ready." He murmured, eyes looking especially watery for no apparent reason.

Everything else was forgotten as the detective and the doctor went into the hospital room, the next chapter in their lives waiting to be unfurled.


	3. Nudge

No one was pregnant in the flat, but there was an increasing build-up of baby gear and ultrasounds began appearing in frames along the stairwell. The cabinets in the kitchen were now child-proofed, making it infuriating for Sherlock to do any sort of experiments, as the locks were obnoxiously hard to open.

The detective had mixed feelings about Baker Street being invaded by the tiny creature, especially since it hadn't even been born yet. John was obsessively buying baby clothing and spent almost all his spare time in his old room, cleaning and fixing up a nursery. Every now and then, some form of infantile clothing or toy would leak into the sitting room and Sherlock was once again presented with the very real events that were going to take place soon.

Jordan, the surrogate, would occasionally come. John was always insisting that she come eat lunch with them but she usually declined. Sherlock didn't much like her, she never said anything of interest and the only common things they had was that she was carrying one of their biological children.

She was four months pregnant and was going today to have another ultrasound to determine the sex of the baby. John was positively beside himself with joy and it was impossible sometimes for Sherlock to not be a little dazzled with how effortlessly his husband slipped into this role of parent.

Such a moment was upon him as he climbed the stairs to see John in the nursery, pulling off the wallpaper that had inhabited the room while he had lived there, and a bucket of cream paint was sitting in the hallway for when the job was finished. Sherlock leaned against the doorframe, smiling as John turned to him, hearing the sound of his husband's footsteps. "Oh, hey… Just getting the room ready." He said nonchalantly. A crib and a plethora of toys were crammed into the corner out of the way and Sherlock spied a little baby walker as well.

"No one can say that the child won't be well-cared for." Was all the detective could offer as John laughed, kissing the pale man on the cheek before returning to his tedious work.

Sherlock watched for a few minutes before the doctor spoke. "Jordan texted me a half an hour ago saying she was heading into the clinic, the results should be back any minute now." His unadulterated glee was heard reverberating in every word he uttered.

"What if it's a girl?" the detective asked, cocking his head. "We're not adequately prepared for a girl John. It'll be dramatic and crafty and conniving… and then it'll be a _teenager_."

The soldier looked annoyed with Sherlock's lack of optimism. "We will love _our_ child no matter what Sherlock. I read this in the books, your paternal instinct won't kick in until you've held the baby so I'm willing to put up with your smartass comments for now. Besides, I believe we are more than prepared for a girl… she can't be more dramatic then you."

The taller man narrowed his eyes at his husband. "You read books? You actually devoted time reading literature about my behavior pattern concerning my offspring?"

John looked dangerously close to saying something waspish, but there was a ringing in the sitting room and the soldier suddenly bolted from the bedroom with agility to make an Olympic acrobat envious. Sherlock was pushed roughly aside, left alone in the hallway, quite unsure as to what had just happened. He felt rather childish admitting that he wished he got nearly as much attention as this unborn creature did.

He put on his best sulk and headed downstairs to find John answering his phone. "Hello? Jordan? Yes! How is everything?" there was quiet as she filled him in, Sherlock watched tears form in John's eyes as his husband grabbed the detective's hand and squeezed.

"Well then?" he prompted impatiently and the doctor gave him a look.

"Is it a boy or a girl?" John asked, his question hanging in the air. He threw the hand that was connected to Sherlock into the air with a cry of victory as he looked at his husband and proclaimed happily "It's a boy! We're going to have a son!"

That was the pivotal moment. It gave an air of finality on this whole deal. Before it wasn't real, it was a game of domestic bliss John was playing at, but it was a boy… a little John growing away inside some woman's uterus. Sherlock's mind pictured a little boy toddling around the flat, he had John's hair, eyes, nose, face… there was (thankfully) not a trace of his own wretched appearance on him. The child was all his husband's.

Then the less positive side made its presence known. He saw a dark haired monster rampaging about, throwing beakers, making messes, and worse, not allowing them to leave the flat. This little demon, taking John away from him, he'd have to work cases alone and then come home to the selfish imp constantly clawing for attention. He saw a reality of hell and knew that when the announcement of the gender had been made there was no turning back.

"Sherlock?" John's voice broke through his layers of thought as he looked up and saw that he was now sitting on the couch. "What's wrong?" his doctor asked, looking worried.

"The child…"

"Everything's fine, heart rate, growth… it's a boy Sherlock." The detective closed his eyes for a moment. And John grew anxious. "What's wrong?" he repeated.

"What if this wasn't the right time? What if we're rubbish parents? I know nothing of children John and I don't want to end up ruining it. What if it turns out to be spoiled and selfish and it takes you away from me." Sherlock's worst fears came tumbling out of his mouth like vomit as he eyed John's facial features for signs of anger or disappointment, none came.

Very gently, John embraced his husband, letting the dark head rest on his shoulder. "You're going to do fine, and we will definitely not be rubbish parents. As for the whole 'taking away' thing. Sherlock, having this child will only make me love you more. We're going to be a family now and trust me, you'll love him just as much as I will. It'll come to you in time."

They sat there for a long time, Sherlock's mind still unable to eject the two possible outcomes of having a child in 221B. The angel faced blonde boy that looked like John and the dark haired devil that resembled him, crashing about and ruining everything.

Jordan came over that night bearing photos of the ultrasound and John thanked her with many embraces. Sherlock, as usual, said nothing to her, he didn't particularly care about how she was doing or her life was, she was there to do a job and nothing else. She was only here because John was incapable of carrying a child for them. It occurred to him that if John actually was the one having the baby his reaction to its arrival would be different, but until then he regarded the surrogate's belly with distrust as though it were an alien of some kind.

When it came time for her to leave John did something that shocked and alarmed Sherlock, he got down on his knees and put his hands tentatively on Jordan's stomach, peering at it as though he had x-ray vision and could somehow find the fetus through the mess of tissue and blood. "H-Hello? Are you in there? If you can hear me… I'm your Daddy and I'm very anxious to meet you. You're-you're-," he looked up, at a loss for a word to describe Sherlock to the cluster of cells inside Jordan's stomach.

"Father?" the detective said, quite unsure himself of what to be called by it.

"Yes! Father, he's excited to see you too and we can hardly wait Percival-,"

At the calling of anything such a name Sherlock had to interject. "His name will not be Percival John!" the detective snapped.

John looked up from his spot on his knees and raised an eyebrow. "You don't help me with anything baby related and you want to name him all of a sudden?"

The pale man sniffed. "I don't think anything would want to be called such a horrendous name."

The doctor opened his mouth to say something when a nudging sensation caught him off guard and he looked up at Jordan for verification, but quickly drew his own conclusions when he saw her look of surprise. "He just kicked me!" John exclaimed, eyes alight.

"Of course he did, he heard you were going to name him Percival!" replied an exasperated Sherlock, plopping down on the couch.

"Sherlock come and feel this," John said, reaching out for his husband.

The thought of touching an unknown woman's stomach made him cringe but he had little choice when his doctor got up and dragged him over to Jordan's belly and made him press a long white had to it. The child stopped moving at once and Sherlock couldn't help but feel a little insulted.

"He's… not moving anymore." The detective said. "He must not like me as much as he likes-," and then as if to spite his Father's doubtful nature, there was a deliberate nudge to the palm of Sherlock's hand.

John watched in fascination as Sherlock's eyes grew very round and he lowered himself until he was just inches away from the fabric of Jordan's stomach, feeling the child flutter away inside. "You feel him?" he asked his husband, who nodded his head of dark curls rather quickly.

"Hamish."

"What?"

"His name will be Hamish, _not_ Percival." Sherlock stated matter-of-factly as he removed his hand slowly from the surrogate's stomach and stood back up. "After your family, not mine."

"Hamish Sherlock Watson-Holmes?" John said slowly.

"No, Hamish Malcom Watson-Holmes. It was one of the 'strong' Scottish names you listed the day we went to the hospital."

Jordan quietly said good-bye, handing the ultrasound to John and left, Sherlock didn't pay her any mind at all, watching her leave.

When the door had clicked shut downstairs, the detective reached for the photograph, and John gave it to him, watching his husband study the little child inside for a long time.

In fact, he was still studying it when John retreated to bed at eleven that night.


	4. Birth

It was three in the morning when the ringing of John's phone woke him. Stumbling out of bed he answered the phone with a yawn. "Hello?"

"John? Oh thank God you've answered. It's the baby-,"

"What? What's wrong?" John was immediately in a panic.

"Nothing, my water's just broke and I'm in labor." Long limbs wrapped around the doctor's waist as Sherlock listened to Jordan's words through the phone. "I'm going to the hospital right now, could you maybe join me there? I need you to finish the final paperwork through the agency and such-,"

"We'll be there in twenty minutes." Sherlock interrupted her, taking the phone from John and promptly hanging up.

The smaller man looked beside himself, so nervous his legs were wobbling as he struggled to pull on a jumper and a pair of trousers. "Sherlock, we're having a baby."

"Yes, that's what happens after nine months of pregnancy John." The detective responded shortly, buttoning up his shirt and reaching for his coat.

"I-I'm not sure I can do this." Sherlock stopped what he was doing and looked up to see his husband, the mighty John Watson, sitting on the bed looking thoroughly horrified. "I think I'm going to be sick." He said weakly.

The taller man leaned down to gather the doctor in his arms and kiss his face several times in various locations. "John Watson, you have been reduced to a cowering mess by a mere baby. What would your superiors say?" he murmured against his husband's lips.

"What if you were right? What if we're terrible parents and our child turns into a serial killer or something?" John fretted. "I'm not ready."

"You spend on average thirty hours a week reading parenting books, you talk to that woman's stomach so much you should probably go for psychoanalysis and you pin ultrasounds around our flat like they're Nobel Prizes. John, Hamish Watson-Holmes is on his way and you are going to be the first one to hold him and say hello." Sherlock said firmly. "Now, I said twenty minutes so you better get some shoes on so we don't show up at Saint Bart's looking like a couple of haggard homeless people."

John vanishes into the sitting room in search of his boots while Sherlock reaches for his phone to type a text out.

_It's happening –SH_

He sends it and in a few seconds a reply is in his inbox

_I know –MH_

_I don't know what to do about John –SH_

_What do you mean? –MH_

_He's a nervous wreck –SH_

_Stay with him, reassure him, love him. You're going to be fathers. –MH_

The thought hit him now like a bus, like a million nicotine patches placed throughout his body. His thoughts came crystal clear as he hailed a taxi and told them to get them to Saint Bartholomew's Hospital. He took John's hand confidently and didn't let go until they were in the room with Jordan, whose breathing was rather short and a thin sheen of sweat was on her brow.

"I'm so glad… you could make it." She panted, smiling tightly. Mycroft was seated opposite, looking unbelievably immaculate for the hour of the day it was.

"Jordan's labor is moving much faster than the nurses thought." The Holmes brother filled them in. "It seems that young Percival is eager to meet his parents."

Sherlock's eye twitched. "Oh for god's sakes Mycroft. No son of mine is ever going to bear the name Percival and I don't understand John's bloody attachment to the name."

"It was my understanding that was the official choice, dear brother. Such a shame, Mummy would've been so happy to see the name carried on."

"Maybe next time then Mycroft." John said, not taking his eyes off of Jordan as a contraction hit her and she winced.

Sherlock opened his mouth to agree but shut it as he rounded on John. "Next time? _Next time?_ John you are sadly mistaken if you think I'm going through this a second time."

"Would you please… just SHUT UP for ten minutes!" the surrogate growled at the pale man who looked taken aback.

"Do as she says Sherlock." John cut in before he could work himself up and spout out harmful words about the size of her stomach and how hard it would be to work the weight off of her frame once she succeeded in having the baby.

Mycroft had brought a deck of cards and the brothers spent the time in the corner of the room playing various card games they had made up when they were younger. John never strayed from Jordan's side, anxiously consulting a nurse every twenty minutes or so.

Sherlock grew bored with being cooped up in the hospital room and luckily John saw and intercepted before he disaster struck. The detective excused himself to pop down to the morgue, leaving Mycroft alone with the pregnant woman and the doctor.

"How is Sherlock?" the older man said, attempting to make conversation.

"Fine." John replied curtly.

They remained like this for quite some time until Jordan reached for the soldiers hand and squeezed it as another contraction wracked through her body. She looked slightly deranged as she cried out "I need to push."

John nearly lost his cool. "Right now?" he said, his throat closing up. Mycroft was already in the hallway, hailing a passing nurse.

"Right now." She said grimly, squeezing his hand again in pain.

"You can't push right now!" John said, now panicking. "Just-wait, please, for a few minutes. I need to get Sherlock. He can't miss this!" he tried to untangle himself from the woman but she clung tighter.

"No! Please don't leave me!" Jordan begged.

The doctor was terrified as he looked up at Mycroft, who was talking heatedly with a nurse, handing her something as she ran down the hallway. He entered the room again looking more at ease than John. "It's alright now, Jordan, we're getting you a doctor right now."

"No! Not without Sherlock!" the blonde-haired man insisted, frustrated that he wasn't being heard right.

Sherlock felt the hand of someone on him, and this caught his immediate attention because he never let anyone touch him except John. He whirled around to see a red-faced nurse heaving for breath. "You're in the wrong place. The living is up one floor." He stated, instantly disinterested in whatever she had to say.

"I was sent by a man on the third floor, he said that she's ready to push." The words struck Sherlock so hard he dropped his scalpel into the chest cavity of the dead man he was inspecting.

The sounds of harsh footfalls was music to John's ears as Sherlock enveloped him. Jordan was already in position, her breathing ragged and tears streaming down her cheeks. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have left." He murmured into his husband's neck.

"Its fine, I'd rather you be in the morgue than making things hellish up here-," John had more to say but his words were drowned out as the woman in the hospital bed let out an agonizing whimper as she pushed. The doctor in charge was coaching her and nurses gave encouragement.

Mycroft had left them with an apologetic smile at this point, standing briskly. "I'm sorry boys but this is where I must go, childbirth is not one of the instances my stomach can hold out." Had Sherlock not been so transfixed on what was going on he would've taken proper time to insult his brother's weak willpower but another cry interrupted his thought process.

"You're doing so well Jordan! One more!" the nurse said to the sweaty, crying mass that was their surrogate mother.

John felt weak; he leaned heavily on Sherlock as a new kind of noise pierced the air forcefully. The doctor extracted a bloody mess from between Jordan's legs and held it for a moment before handing it off to one of the nurses to be cleaned up. For being such an important moment, the Watson-Holmes felt rather helpless, watching from the other corner of the room as the wiggling mess was scrubbed.

"Mr. and Mr. Watson-Holmes?" one of the nurses asked, Sherlock nudged John who appeared to be nauseous.

"Yes?"

"Your son." She handed a blue blanketed bundle to the army doctor who was surprisingly steady despite his weakened front.

Sherlock's first impression of the baby in his husband's arms was disappointment. There was no trace of blonde on this baby, any trace of John period. This was one hundred percent his child and he loathed that.

The baby was still crying, its face was smashed up, but even through that the resemblance between the detective and the infant was evident. There was even a full head of matted black curls to boot.

"John, I'm sorry." Sherlock murmured, looking over the man's shoulders.

John turned to look at Sherlock, scandalized. "What the hell are you going on about? Sorry? Look at him, look at our son. He's… he's brilliant." His anger with his husband was forgotten as he turned his attention back to the wiggling mass wailing away in his arms.

Even though the child was a few minutes old he was attempting to open his eyes, as if to direct his complaints to the person who had dragged him out of his warm nesting area. The eyes of the baby were a dark blue but Sherlock could see from the faint traces of gray that they would grow to resemble Sherlock's cold moonstone sheen. Despite all that, there was a warmth spreading in the detective's chest as he viewed his husband holding the child.

"Sir?" one of the nurses asked, holding a bottle of formula out for him. "Would you like to feed your son?"

John numbly took the bottle and then focused back on Sherlock. "Here, you feed him."

The detective recoiled immediately. "I'll drop him."

"Oh for Christ sake's Sherlock, take him and feed your son!" and without any further words he pushed the baby into the slender hands of Sherlock Watson-Holmes.

The tall man clutched the baby to his chest scrutinized the features. "He looks displeased." He commented.

"He's hungry." John murmured.

"Right," Sherlock said, taking the bottle and nudging it into the baby's mouth, satisfied when greedy sucking noises could be heard.

"Hamish." The doctor said, fumbling with his phone and taking a quick photo of Sherlock nursing his ten minute old son. "Hamish Malcolm Watson-Holmes?"

"As long as no Percival is in there then it is correct." Was the waspish reply as the detective gently shifted his arms to better support the child. The baby didn't seem too interested in anything but eating and a new scene began to be created in Sherlock's head, a dark curly haired toddler running around the flat with him and John. A small head peeking over the kitchen table as he conducted experiments, asking questions, deducing and gathering knowledge. A child who was taught to love from John, and was instructed how to be clever by him.

"Sherlock?" John's voice reached him from far away as he looked up, a little startled. "Sherlock do you want to sign the birth certificate?" his husband motioned to the nurse who was holding an official piece of paper.

The detective reached for the pen and with one hand signed his wispy signature, moving his arm in such a way that the bottle was still supported so his son could still eat. He looked over to see John filming him on his camera.

"What on earth are you doing John." Sherlock said, raising an eyebrow.

"Capturing your first moments as a dad."

"No, you are dad, I am father, remember?"

"You don't have to be father if you don't want to-,"

"I want to be father. Dad is much too warm a noun to be associated with me." John smiled, a small tear running down his cheek as he stopped the recording and began fidgeting with the keys on the keypad.

"This is going to the Yarders and Mycroft." He announced.

Sherlock said nothing, turning his attention back to the boy who had finished eating. "Do you want to hold him again?" he asked his husband.

John took the baby- no, Sherlock corrected, he took _Hamish_ and cradled him to his chest. "Hello Hamish, good lord that's a mouthful… we've got to get you a nickname."

"Hamish will do just fine, it's a good name." Sherlock insisted. "He doesn't need a nickname."

The doctor ignored him. "What about Ham? No… We could call you by your middle name but that would be even worse…." His brow was furrowed in thought for a moment until he looked up, beaming at the child. "I've got it, we'll call you Hal."

Sherlock peered at his husband curiously. "Why?"

"Y'know… after King Henry IV…" the questioning look from Sherlock said clearly that he didn't know. "He was a very clever man, but he was also a soldier… I don't know. I like it, and it works."

"I think you're making it up, you just like it because it rhymes with pal. Don't expect me to be calling him by any nicknames." The detective snipped.

John looked irritated as he turned back to his son. "That's your father for you, always ruining the fun. But he's not all bad, I promise. In fact, though he won't admit it, I think he's quite taken by you."


	5. Bond

Sherlock lay in the bed he shared with John, eye firmly closed and snuggled deep into the arms of his doctor. "I love you Sherlock." His husband whispered into his ear.

"Mmm." The sleepy man murmured into John's shoulder. The light turned off and they were in blissful darkness as they sank off to sleep.

Until a pitiful cry was heard from the direction of the baby monitor. Sherlock opened one eye and saw that John had not heard it, he was already asleep. He panicked momentarily, he had never tended to Hamish in this way, John always got up to do it, since they had brought their son home weeks ago. But he saw how tired the man looked and very quietly he got up to walk upstairs and see to all the fuss.

The nightlight in the nursery gave off enough light for him to see as he leaned over the crib and saw a small squirming figure inside. Sherlock was quite at a loss as the child continued to cry weakly, unsure of what to do. He reflected on what John did on a day to day basis, using this as a point of reference.

The diaper appeared to be dry, for this Sherlock thanked the universe; he wasn't ready for nappy changing just yet. He might be hungry; bottle feeding was his specialty, ever since he had fed him for the first time in the hospital. Gingerly, Sherlock hefted the baby out of the crib and before he could turn and exit the room the child stopped crying.

He was confused, did that mean he only wanted to be held or he was still hungry? He looked at the baby, whose hair was coming in nice and dark now, with a slight curl to it that would heighten over time. "What do you need?" he asked his son, half expecting him to answer. No reply.

He held him like this for a few minutes before gently setting him back down. The baby looked at him for a moment and then began to cry again. Sherlock winced, sure that one had woken John up. "Shh! Why are you being so difficult!" he scolded the child with a hiss, hastily picking him back up and cradling him to his chest.

The night was young but Sherlock was tired, and wanted to go back to John and rest. He looked at Hamish, who was now silent and seemingly content, and frowned. Being as quiet as he could, Sherlock began to walk down the steps with his son in his arms, Hamish only made cooing noises, wiggling a bit.

The detective pushed the door open to his bedroom and looked in to see John still snoozing away, undisturbed. Sherlock then sat on the edge of the bed, trying to create a situation in his mind that would allow him to hold onto Hamish, ensuring he didn't cry, and for him to still stay close to John.

His son kicked his leg in the air, as though in a sort of victory dance. Sherlock frowned at him again. "I hope you're happy." He muttered as he lay down, settling the baby on his chest and getting as pressed up against John as he could.

The child grabbed a fistful of Sherlock's shirt and almost immediately his breathing slowed, happy to be near someone. The detective briefly wondered if they would have to move the crib into their room for a while before Hamish could sleep through the night. He recalled in one of the books John had made him read that it was good for children to spend time in their parents' bed to reinforce the security net. He looked down at the sleeping baby on his chest and supposed the child felt mostly secure. Sherlock then closed his eyes and went to sleep.

John woke up at eight o'clock to the sound of crying and he looked towards the baby monitor and frowned, seeing that the sound lights weren't moving at all to show that there was noise coming through them. He sat up and stretched, hearing the cry again.

"Good-morning." Sherlock's drowsy voice said gently, John turned and was quite surprised to see Hamish lying on the bed with his husband leaning over him, tickling various bits of the baby. The crying sounded once more, but John saw it wasn't distress, but simply social babble.

"Good-morning." He returned, looking at his son and then to Sherlock, planting a kiss on each. "Shall I get breakfast started?"


	6. Bored

Sherlock was in the kitchen, analyzing something for a case while John sat on the sofa, bouncing a little Hamish on his knee.

"Dad-da!" the doctor said slowly to the grinning face of his son. "C'mon Hal, say Dada!" the baby merely grabbed John's nose and squealed. Sherlock looked over his shoulder to watch the exchange.

"You've been trying for a week John, I think he would've said something by now." The detective sighed, setting the experiment aside and pulling off his gloves to go sit next to his husband.

"The books said that he should be forming words by now though." The doctor said, motioning to the open parenting handbook on the coffee table. Sherlock rolled his eyes and leaned back, Hamish was now trying to get down from John's lap.

He had taken to crawling with a vigor neither men had expected and John was constantly terrified that the boy would fall down the stairs or some equally horrible fate befall him. The child guards were up however and the doctor set him down, mindfully watching his son scoot around.

Hamish did not go anywhere though; instead, once he was down; he moved over to Sherlock and reached a hand out, a big smile on his face, revealing the two or three teeth he had. Before the detective could pick him up, the toddler surprised them both by saying one simple word.

"Bored."

John looked like he was in danger of keeling over as Hamish laughed gleefully at the attention he was receiving. Sherlock picked up the child and set him in his lap, studying the angelic little face framed with unruly black curls. "Say it again Hamish." The detective instructed.

The child grinned, leaning forward to fall on Sherlock's chest. "Bored." He giggled.

At this the doctor now burst out into roaring laughter, making Hamish jump, not expecting the loud noise spilling forth from his Dad.

"I fail to see why you find this funny John." Sherlock said, raising an eyebrow while unclenching his son's hand around a lock of his hair that he was pulling quite painfully.

John wiped a tear from his cheek. "I can't say he's not observant. I think our son's got a perfect understanding of how you work."

The detective gave him a pointed glare as he stood, hoisting the toddler onto his hip and walking into the kitchen to inspect his experiment while Hamish tried to pull his hair more while proudly babbling "bored" over and over again.

"At least he's got perfect pronunciation." Sherlock called to John.

The doctor stood, walking over to them and plucking the boy from his husband's arms to free them for his experiment. "Next he'll be walking." He murmured, giving Hamish a tickle.

The taller man looked over his shoulder, blanching at the thought of their son tearing through the flat on any given whim. "It's a wonder how I'll ever get any work done." He muttered darkly, turning back to the analysis with a sulk.

"Oh Sherlock, you're such a prat." John replied.

"Bored." Hamish agreed seriously.


	7. Crime Scene

"Sherlock I can't let you in with him," Lestrade said, gaping at the detective striding towards the crime scene. "It's illegal enough allowing you in."

"Hush Lestrade, he's asleep. John's at the surgery and I have nowhere else to put him." Sherlock snapped, crossing the tape.

Strapped upon the detective's back was a curious contraption that looked like a sort of deformed backpack. Peeking out of the disfigured mechanism was a head of thick curls. Limbs spilled out the side of the carrying pack as Sherlock stooped to inspect a body.

Sally Donovan watched him with disgust. "Detective Inspector," she complained. "You can't let him do this, with a baby?"

"I assure you, Sergeant Donovan, he is eyes are closed." Sherlock responded waspishly, lifting the corpse's hand to inspect some bits of grass pressed into the palm. Anderson walked out of the shed and looked taken aback to see the Watson-Holmes with such company.

"You've really stooped to a new low then freak." The forensics' expert sneered. "Taking your son to crime scenes with you. What? Is John no longer tolerating your madness."

Sherlock looked up, his eyes narrowed. "I'll thank you and your ridiculously small brain to leave my husband and son out of any ill-mannered comments you may have about me." He responded, standing and turning to Lestrade.

"Check the shed again for a hidden compartment, you'll find the murder weapon. As for the killer-," Sherlock felt the weight on his back shift as Hamish woke up. He sighed, undoing the straps around his shoulders and lowering the pack to the ground, plucking his son out of the carrier. The boy squirmed slightly but upon seeing who was holding him, closed his eyes again and rested his head against his father's chest.

Lestrade looked taken aback along with the other Yarders. To see Sherlock display affection or any sort of emotion resembling parental instinct was unexpected. Hamish himself had only really been around the team twice, both when he was just a year old. John had taken him in when they were giving statements and he had stayed firmly within the doctor's arms the entire time. Sherlock ignored their shocked looks and continued along with what he had been saying. "-As for the killer, you should find him two blocks down the road in a pub located next to a field."

Donovan said something into her radio and moved towards the patrol car, motioning for several other officers to follow suit. Lestrade stayed behind, looking at the detective as he slowly rocked back and forth, absentmindedly rubbing Hamish's back.

"John's going to kill me," Sherlock murmured to his friend. "I wasn't supposed to wake him up. Hopefully he'll go right off tonight."

"If you give them a bit of honey in their formula it makes them drowsy." The Detective Inspector offered, finding it incredibly odd that the pair were exchanging parenting tips.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "He's been teething and I put wooden spoons in the freezer for him to gnaw on. It seems to calm him down, but he appears very partial to thumb sucking and John's been going insane trying to formulate ways to get him to quit." The detective shifted Hamish's weight and his son stirred more noticeably before lifting his head and looking around him.

Lestrade immediately say who was the father of this boy, the hair, the face, even the disregarding glance he cast the Detective Inspector. "He's quite a handsome lad." He said, cocking his head in the direction of the wide gray eyes. "May I?" he asked Sherlock, holding his arms out.

The detective didn't look pleased but handed his son over. Hamish looked at the strange man who was holding him and promptly began to cry. "BORED! BORED BORED BORED!" he wailed, reaching for his father again.

"Did-Did he just say bored?" Lestrade said, trying to stuff his giggles back inside his mouth. Sherlock scowled, snatching his son back.

"It's the only word he knows." He muttered. Hamish stopped sniffling and was now trying to work Sherlock's blackberry out of his pocket, only to be thwarted time and time again. "Hamish Malcolm Watson-Holmes stop it this instant!" the detective said sharply to his son. "What have I told you about touching father's mobile?"

Hamish sulked, turning to look back at Lestrade. "Bored." He lamented, leaning his cheek against his father's shoulder.

"At least he listens to you, how else would he have picked up that word?" Lestrade laughed heartily. "He is quite the looker. Who would've thought that you would be able to produce such handsome offspring Sherlock?"

The detective gave him a glower when suddenly his mobile rang. He closed his eyes, as if praying for mercy before answering it, trying to hold Hamish with one arm and failing. "Hello John," he said into the phone. "What noise? Hamish and I are in the flat. Crime scene? Are you sure you haven't been huffing the laughing gas again?" there was shouting on the other end and Sherlock winced, changing tactics. "Oh Jaaaawwn," he whined. "It was one little serial murder." This was the wrong thing to say and the shouting grew louder.

Lestrade watched Hamish flail in his friend's arms while the detective tried to pacify his husband. "No, the murderer is not here, Hamish is perfectly safe. He's asleep, yes, napping in that infernal papoose you insisted on buying."

"Bored!" Hamish shouted at the phone, Sherlock blanched.

"Hm? Oh it appears he's just woken up." The pale man tried to sound nonchalant but he knew he was in trouble as he hung up the phone and looked at Lestrade. "John's on his way home, I've got to go."

"Good luck, mate." The Detective Inspector sympathized. "You're going to need it."

The other detective nodded forlornly, looking at his son with a displeased air. "You've gone and got me in trouble Hamish." He stated, setting him into the backpack before hoisting it back onto his shoulders. "Whatever am I going to do with you?"

Lestrade watched the tall man hail a cab and disappear around a street corner, chuckling as he did so.


	8. Easter

"What a truly ridiculous holiday." Sherlock commented as he and John hid eggs around the flat before Hamish woke up.

"Shut up, it's not for you or me, it's for Hal." The doctor replied sharply, inserting an egg into the couch cushion.

The detective then went into the top cabinet and retrieved the Easter basket they had bought last week for their son and he filled it with the fake grass and chocolate. "He's not going to sleep for days." He remarked. "I hope you have fun trying to put him to bed tonight, since this was your idea."

John rolled his eyes as he stuffed the last of the eggs away out of sight. "I want him to have a little Easter egg hunt before we head off to brunch, it's what everyone does Sherlock."

"Do we even semi-resemble everyone John?" the other man replied. Instead of getting upset, John smiled and stood on tiptoe to kiss his husband. A noise sounded upstairs and they broke apart.

"He's up." John murmured, kissing Sherlock again, deeper this time. The consulting detective leaned back against the counter and returned it amply. The noises got louder and a distressed wail made them both groan, Hamish Watson-Holmes was not to be ignored, the message was received.

"I'll go get him, put the basket on the coffee table." Sherlock said, nibbling on John's earlobe, making him shiver. "But I draw the line at telling him the Easter rabbit is real." The soldier smirked as his husband ran upstairs to fetch the wailing child.

Sherlock stuck his head into the nursery to see a teary-eyed Hamish standing up in his crib-bed hybrid (John had refused to get him a bed until he turned five, saying that then that meant he might open the door in the middle of the night and break his neck falling down the stairs), looking at him. "Father." He sniffled.

"Hush now Hamish, it's alright, no one's abandoned you." The detective said, picking up the toddler. He buried his head into his father's shoulder and grabbed onto his shirt collar. "Do you know what day it is Hamish?"

"Bunny holiday." He replied shyly. "Magic bunny came?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to deny the existence of such a creature but shut it again when he saw the wonder and excitement in his son's eyes. Cursing himself he rocked the boy gently and said with a tight smile. "Well why don't we go downstairs and see?" Hamish nodded enthusiastically, looking back at his crib and reaching for his teddy bear, Boswell.

Boswell had been with Hamish since he was one, a Christmas gift from John. The minute the bear had been presented to the boy, the two had been inseparable. Sherlock was always concerned that the wretched thing would get ripped or torn or was carrying some kind of disease but never had the heart to take it away to wash it and so Boswell remained, missing one eye and a slightly torn ear.

With the stuffed animal securely in hand, the pair went downstairs, and much to Hamish's glee, it appeared that the magic bunny had indeed come. John stood in the doorway to the kitchen, grinning blissfully as Sherlock put Hamish down and he ran straight to his Easter basket.

The boy showed them everything that was inside with joy. "Dad!" he shrieked. "Dad! Magic bunny came!" Sherlock couldn't help but smile as he took his husband's hand and watched their son unwrap his first chocolate bunny and take a bite.

John took a step forward and crouched down next to Hamish. "Now, Hal, the Easter bunny came, he left eggs with little gifts inside."

The boy looked mystified as he furrowed his tiny brow. "Why?" he asked. The question was so frank that Sherlock laughed.

"Because that's what the Easter bunny does. Now, do you want to find the eggs?" he asked. Hamish looked deep in thought as though weighing his options before nodding slowly. John motioned to the sitting room, telling him to have at it and the boy began uncovering each prize one by one.

Every time another was found he held it high above his head with a victorious yelp and both the men applauded his prowess for discovery. The basket was a little big for him to be carrying, but Hamish, not to be defeated by some woven wicker simply dragged it around as he placed opened each egg and dumped the contents inside the basket, throwing the empty plastic shell aside.

John had his video camera and was taping the entire thing, demanding Sherlock wave to the camera before following Hamish around like he was filming a documentary on some fierce predatory animal. "Smile Hal!" the doctor said to the curly-haired four year-old.

"Egg." He replied seriously.

"Yes, there's an egg, but smile for the camera!" John tried again.

"Father doesn't smile." He retorted stubbornly, opening the egg he tried to give to his dad and tilting it over so the chocolate went into his basket and he then continued on his journey. John gave his husband a dark look, but Sherlock was too busy shaking with laughter to care properly.

Towards the end of the hunt there was a knock on the door and Sherlock left to go answer it, finding Mycroft. "Ah, happy Easter Sherlock." The man said pleasantly. "I'm here to see to my nephew."

The detective scowled at his brother's appearance but let him in. Hamish was, however, delighted to see his uncle and ran to hug his leg. "Molly!" he cried happily.

Mycroft's smile disappeared and John's eyes went wide. "No, it's uncle Mycroft, Hamish." The doctor tried to correct but Hamish remained set in his belief.

"Molly!" he repeated again. The older Holmes raised his eyes to look at a smug Sherlock sitting innocently on the couch.

"You put him up to this." Mycroft said, glowering at the pale, dark haired man.

"I really don't know what you're talking about Mycroft." Sherlock said.

John saw an argument brewing between them and quickly stepped in before anything got out of hand. "Mycroft, why don't you give us an hour and then come back… we should be ready to attend brunch with the family by then."

The elder Holmes gave a tight nod, stooping down to give his nephew a pouch full of chocolate coins. "I saw these on my way here and I thought you might like them Hamish." He said. The boy smiled and sheepishly hugged his uncle.

"Thank you." He said as John scooped him up.

"Right, you've got to have a bath, and we've got to get ready. Thank you for getting him something Mycroft, stop back in an hour alright?" the doctor said to his brother-in-law who nodded, seeing himself out as quickly as he had come.

When the door shut John turned to his husband, eyes alight. "What are you playing at? It's Easter Sherlock, could you at least _try_ to act like an adult for once?" he said, exasperated.

"Oh come on John," the detective scoffed. "It was a laugh. And don't lecture me on not acting like an adult, you're the one filling our son's head with all this rubbish about the Easter bunny."

His husband looked at him darkly before walking out of the room to give Hamish a bath, furiously trying to keep the toddler from wiggling out of his arms.

Sherlock sighed, now irritated that he had upset John, his least favorite thing to do. He followed him out of the room and to theirs, sitting on the bed as the sound of running water was heard.

John undressed his son and set him in the bath, smiling slightly as the boy began playing with the wisps of bubble bath accumulating in the tub. He sat down on the toilet opposite and waited for the water level to rise suitably before actually beginning the process of scrubbing.

Chocolate was caked on Hamish's face as he chatted amiably with Boswell, who always accompanied him to the bath, only John had to explain to his son that Boswell couldn't actually join him in the water, and so it became commonplace for the bear to sit propped up on the countertop next to the sink. The doctor let him talk with his teddy bear as he shut the tap off, cupping some water and wetting his son's head with it.

The springy curls became limp and straight under the weight of the water and John began lathering up his hair with gentle fingers. During this part of the washing Hamish was content to play with the bubbles and give himself a soap beard.

"'M a pirate Dad." The boy told John.

"A very scary pirate at that Hamish." He reassured him, grinning. He instructed the child to close his eyes and he obeyed, scrunching up his face comically as John washed the suds out, leaving his hair clean and smelling of lavender.

Next came the soaping of the body and Hamish (ever the grown-up) always did that himself, standing up in the tub and taking the little bath sponge they had, running it over his body feverishly before putting his hands on his hips announcing "'M clean!"

John cocked his head at his son before laughing. "Right then, wash yourself off and I'll go get you a towel."

The doctor exited the bathroom, leaving the door open, and went downstairs to fetch a towel. He passed his room to see Sherlock sitting dejectedly on the bed and stopped momentarily. "What are you going on about?" John asked, leaning against the doorframe.

"I didn't mean to upset you." came the reply from the pouting man. John rolled his eyes and walked over to his husband to give him a quick kiss.

"Cheer up, it's Easter, we'll have other opportunities for me to be mad at you and for you to sulk. Today is not one." He murmured. "You son's in the bath if you want to make sure he doesn't do anything particularly dangerous."

Sherlock stood, raising an eyebrow. "He's half Watson; he would do nothing of the sort."

"Ah yes, but you forget he's also half Holmes. Thoughtless action is practically in the blood." Retorted John as he double timed it get to the linen closet in search of a towel.

Sherlock headed towards the bathroom and looked into the room to find his son playing with the bubbles, rubbing them onto his face and adding as much as he could until he looked like Gandalf's younger brother. "Father!" he said happily, pointing to his bubble beard.

"Very nice Hamish." Sherlock remarked, moving aside for John to get by with the towel. He watched his husband spoon off the excess soap and order his son to stand so he could scoop him up into the towel. Hamish shrieks as John tickles him through the terry cloth.

"Little Hal burrito." The doctor says with a hearty laugh, carrying him into John and Sherlock's room and throwing him on the bed with a laugh. Hamish's hair was so much longer when wet and his black locks hung in his eyes as he struggled to get up when he was wrapped so tightly in his towel. John looked over to his husband who had followed them. "Will you get him dressed? I've got to change into something a little nicer."

"Of course," Sherlock murmured, turning his eyes to Hamish. "Come along Hamish." He said, then seeing that the child couldn't sit up, simply bent down and threw him over his shoulder, much to the boy's glee.

"Father! Father stoppit!" the child kicks and flails but the detective is merciless as he marches up the stairs to Hamish's room, setting him down and unwrapping his towel.

The boy shivered as the cold air violently assaulted his wet skin. "Now," Sherlock said, turning to his son's dresser and opening the first drawer, pulling out a pair of underwear and a nice button down shirt. "Your gran is going to brunch with us so you need to look impeccable." The tall man deliberately chose something that Mummy Holmes purchased for her grandchild.

Getting down on his knees, Sherlock helped the boy step into his underwear, then handed him his shirt. Hamish was very proud of the fact that he could now button the buttons by himself and did it whenever the situation arose. Sometimes John would let him button his shirts for him and Sherlock, always eager to help develop some part of his son's skills, almost always let him button up his jackets or shirts.

Now, clad only in racecar underwear and a three hundred pound silk shirt, Hamish ran to the bathroom to retrieve Boswell from the counter. When he came back Sherlock had him step into his trousers and then sit on his toy box so the detective could put his socks and shoes on for him.

"Lookin' good." Hamish echoes some American television program he's seen last week as both boys turn around to inspect their attire in the mirror.

Sherlock notices how much he's growing to resemble him, Hamish's cheeks are already losing their baby fat and the way he stares analytically at his reflection with his hands in his trouser pockets makes a lump rise in the detective's throat. "You look very handsome Hamish." He says to his son. The boy looks up and grins, his curls are starting to spring back to life due to his hair drying.

Sherlock is thankful that his eyes won't narrow out so much, Jordan, their surrogate didn't have eyes quite so almond shape and it appeared that Hamish's will stay wide and wondering for most of his childhood. John climbs the stairs and stops in the doorway, tying his tie.

"Look at both my men, so sharp." He said, walking over to his husband and planting a rather loving kiss on his lips. Hamish wrinkled his nose and John chuckled, bending down to kiss his son's forehead. "Are we ready now?" he asked the group. Their son nods, grabbing Boswell and leading the charge down the stairs as they all head towards the front door.

Mrs. Hudson is now only just waking up, she is downstairs smiling at Hamish, who happily runs over to her and wishes her happy Magic Bunny day. John gives her a side embrace and Sherlock gives her a peck on the cheek and a squeeze on the shoulder.

"Have fun boys, and Sherlock, do tell Mrs. Holmes that I said hello." The landlady calls, shutting the door to her flat behind her.

The family spills outside where John holds up Hamish to hail a cab for them. Sherlock gives the directions to the restaurant and they sit snugly within the car listening to their son talk to Boswell.

"Do you think Mycroft will still be mad at you?" John asks his husband. Sherlock looks as though he doesn't care and therefore gives no answer. Hamish, noticing the dialogue, peers at his father seriously, then turns to his dad.

"Father's bored." He said, raising his eyebrows in a very John fashion.

Sherlock smiles mischievously, patting his son's head. "No Hamish, you are incorrect. I'm not bored, but I will be very soon."

John sighs, looking out the window.

The restaurant was very posh and Hamish gawked at it as John picked him up and entered the building. Sherlock placed a hand possessively on the small of his husband's back as they told the waiter they were expected. He consulted his book and led them to the back room where they were assaulted by the sounds and smells of a boisterous get together.

Mummy Holmes was smoking a cigarette and speaking in rapid French to Mycroft who was nodding his head and a couple various other relatives were chiming in. They all looked up and Sherlock's mother squealed with enthusiasm when she caught sight of Hamish. She rose to go pry the baby from John's arms but the detective gave her a pointed glare and she sighed, putting her cigarette out first before approaching.

"How is my little darling!" she gushed and Hamish reached out to her. "You look so handsome today." The old woman said, hugging her grandson close.

"Love you Gran." The boy said, his big gray eyes brimming with happiness. "Happy Magic Bunny Day!" he declared grandly, spreading his arms to wrap them around her neck.

"Magic Bunny Day indeed." She replied warmly, turning her eyes to John and winking. "How is my favorite son-in-law? You look rather dashing today dear, I'm pleased to see you opted out of wearing one of those jumpers. Goodness knows you look better in a suit any day."

"Thank you Mrs. Holmes." John said, knowing a compliment from her when he saw it.

She smiled, looking over to her son. "My my Shirley, I haven't seen you in ages, why don't you ever accompany John and Hal when they visit me?"

"I've got casework to do." Sherlock replied stiffly.

Mummy Holmes didn't look convinced but didn't push it. "Very well, I got a full report about you this morning from your brother. It appears you've been using your offspring as a vessel for provoking him. Bravo, you've officially reverted back to the age of three." John watched his husband wince under the pinpointed pressure of his mother's baleful scorn.

"Has Mycroft been telling on me? Who's really the three year-old here Mummy?" Sherlock stated crisply.

"Now now," John cut in, disrupting the Holmes's gazes and making the break focus. "It's Easter Sunday! Why don't we relax and enjoy ourselves? " Hamish slid out of Mrs. Holmes's grip and ran to Mycroft's side, clambering onto his knee and promptly asking for more chocolate.

Sherlock took John's hand and they say down together, facing opposite the detective's mother, who lit up another cigarette.

"Could you please not smoke in front of Hamish?" Sherlock said, now looking annoyed. "There are side effects to him inhaling smoke you know."

Mrs. Holmes's eyebrow twitched. "Who would've thought that you of all people would care who smoked in front of whose company. It seems being a father changes even the most unchangeable of people." She added to the aging relatives at the other end of the table.

"Carbon Monoxide, not good for the lungs." John said, gratefully watching her put out the second cigarette. Hamish was eyeing the lighter that his Gran had placed on the table and he tried to reach for it from his spot on Mycroft's lap.

Sherlock however was quicker than the boy and casually picked it up and moved it further out of his son's reach. "Mycroft, if you're going to hold my son please monitor him so he doesn't end up burning down the restaurant." He remarked snidely to his brother. John grinded his jaw, it was going to be a long hour.

The Watson-Holmes placed their orders when the waiter came around next and Mummy Holmes busied herself with talking in a language that John was not familiar with and so it left him feeling rather stupid, having nothing to do but hold his husband's hand and act like he knew what they were all chattering about.

Due to his Gran's frequent visits, even Hamish had picked up French and could stumble along almost better than his English, as Mrs. Holmes was very strict about his upkeep with the language. Sometimes Sherlock would talk to him at night in it, John could hear him through the baby monitor.

"_Aimez-vous__Hamish__chocolat_?" she questioned her grandson.

"Oui grand-mère!" the child said gleefully, taking the sweets from her hand.

"What?" John leaned over and murmured to Sherlock.

The detective leaned in closer than needed, his lips nearly grazing John's neck. "She asked him if he like chocolate. He said yes. As I said earlier this morning, I hope you enjoy putting him to bed tonight."

The food arrived and John was happy to immerse himself in the fantastic cuisine, now disinterested in at least attempting to follow along with what was being exchanged at the table. Sherlock had opted to pick off of John's plate, claiming he wasn't hungry and so aside from the invading fork he was left in peace.

"So, doctor, how is the practice going?" Mummy Holmes's voice interrupted his quiet eating session.

He sat up, dabbing at his mouth. "Alright, we really don't get many serious cases. It's good, it lets me work with Sherlock and stay with Hal when I need to. It's just what we need."

"Good, good, have you considered moving out of Baker Street to, maybe a bigger area. I'm sure you must worry about Hamish and all those stairs."

Sherlock bristled, the subject of them leaving Baker Street had been a rough issue since the birth of their son, and the detective had simply refused to uproot. His argument is that he would never find another landlady who would tolerate him, but John knew it was the sentiment behind the flat that made him so stubborn. "You know, it's not that big of a problem anymore, Hal seems to be getting on alright without assistance. Did you tell your Gran that you can button up your shirts now Hamish?" he asked the boy.

Hal lit up. "All by myself!" he declared, pointing to the expensive shirt he was currently wearing. "I did this." He emphasized.

Mummy Holmes applauded him enthusiastically. "That is simply marvelous dear. It seems that your father's intelligence has carried over along with those gorgeous cheekbones. My you'll be a heartbreaker when you grow up."

The woman had the French look about her, closely resembling Sherlock and Mycroft simultaneously, how John never knew but you could definitely tell when you saw her face. She however didn't posses the sharp facial features that Sherlock had, and that seemed to be the one thing she desired.

Mycroft spoke now, the first time he'd said anything in English all brunch. "Have you considered any of the preschools I've recommended?" he asked, taking a sip of his coffee.

"We thought maybe public school would be a good idea." John said, bracing for the negative reaction.

He deduced correctly and both Mummy and the older son looked appalled. "Public school? Oh dear that just won't do, not for Hamish. Look at the boy; he's obviously far too advanced for such a thing." At that given moment Hal was trying to blow bubbles in his Shirley Temple with his straw, looking down at it so he was slightly cross-eyed.

Sherlock's silence was smug. He too had wanted to put Hamish in a posh private school but John was adamant as ever that normal school would better suit him, make him more amiable and give him better personality skills. He had seen what private schools had done for the Holmes brothers and the doctor had no desire for his son to turn into a bumbling social idiot.

Mycroft cleared his throat, speaking with an air thick with disapproval. "If you think perhaps the tuition-,"

"No, I want him to be able to properly socialize." John said, cheeks heating up. They thought they were poor, that they couldn't afford it.

"I'm merely saying that with my connections we could severely reduce the cost-,"

"Mycroft, are you insinuating that I cannot properly provide for my husband and son? That the reason we choose public education is because we're broke?" Sherlock had finally caught on and he didn't look pleased.

Mrs. Holmes tossed her hand in a very flippant, very French gesture. "Oh Shirley, please don't make a big deal out of this-,"

"We are quite well-off I assure you," John said, face still red and he self-consciously covered the hemmed front of his jacket. Sherlock didn't miss the gesture and he looked enraged.

"The day I let you two make John feel ashamed of what we have is a cold day in hell." Sherlock said, in one swift motion, pulling Hamish out of Mycroft's lap and standing he looked down at John. "Come along dear, I believe we have some panhandling to do."

"You're being ridiculous Sherlock, we're trying to help. Don't let your pride get in the way." Mummy Holmes called, but she demonstrated her own deduction skills by lighting a cigarette. She knew they would not be coming back to sit down.

She was right, they were out on the street and hailing a cab before she took her second drag.

"Sherlock, its Easter-,"

"Poor, John!" his husband fumed. "They think we are poor! Mycroft thinks we cannot care for our own son!"

The doctor rubbed his temples, looking down at Hamish, who was in turn looking forlornly down at Boswell, now clutched in his arms. "I don't think that's what they were getting at-,"

The detective cast him a withering glare. "You don't see it, they were going to ask if we wanted to take the leftovers home, if we needed a little extra money for Hamish's school supplies. They look at our furniture and think we cannot afford finer things." He was so angry his hands appeared to be shaking as he held Hamish closer.

"Father?" their son's voice sounded very small.

"Not now Hamish." Sherlock replied roughly. The child fidgeted, feeling the quivering fingers holding onto his coat.

"Father," he repeated gently this time, tugging at the man's jacket. "Am I wrong?" Both men paused and looked at the frightened child. He looked anxiously at his parents. "Am I wrong?" he repeated again, clearly distressed.

"Never Hal," John said firmly. "You've done nothing wrong."

Sherlock looked at his son, his eyes softening. "Let's go home," the detective sighed. "I think we have some Easter chocolate to digest." He leaned his head forward to kiss Hamish on the forehead, then he looked at his husband. "Will you make us some tea?"

John took Sherlock's hand and smiled. "Of course, if we've got any, the life of a clinic doctor and consulting detective can be rather taxing you know." The pale man scowled at him, then threw his head back and laughed.

"Doctor Watson you will be the death of me."


	9. First Day Of School

John was emotionally unstable today of all days and Sherlock saw it. He saw it in the way his husband opened his eyes when the alarm went off, and how he carried himself up the stairs to check on his son. The detective followed him to see a bright young Hamish waiting patiently for his dad to tell him it was time to get up.

"First day of school." He said enthusiastically.

"It would seem so Hal." John said, his voice choked.

Sherlock understood that it would be tough for the doctor to say good-bye that morning. As if sensing the detective's thoughts, John looked up and Sherlock saw the sadness with a touch of joy. Their son was growing up.

"I'll make us some tea shall I?" Sherlock murmured.

His husband scoffed. "Don't bother, I'll do it if you want to get a head start on breakfast." The men met eyes and nodded, the taller of the two was a little more awake than his counterpart and John rubbed his eyes furiously as they made their way towards the sitting room.

"What time do I pick him up today? You'll be at the surgery." Sherlock murmured, opening the fridge, bypassing the eyeballs, and reaching for the eggs.

"He's done at 3 o'clock." John said, filling up the kettle. "But don't let him stay too long outside, there's all sorts psychopaths that lurk around schools and be sure to check him over for scratches and treat them right when you get back to the flat so they don't get infected-,"

"John," his husband interrupted his voice gentle yet firm. "He's going to be fine."

The doctor looked up from his spot next to the kettle, distantly hearing his son getting dressed. The backpack and school supplies were sitting on the couch, testament to the fact that Hamish was getting older by the day. Sherlock was curious as to why he was so distraught, the detective himself was happy that the boy was growing and learning new things.

John sighed, watching Sherlock crack a few eggs in a pan and turn the heat up, grabbing a spatula. "I just don't like him leaving us. I don't know if he's ready yet."

His husband raised an eyebrow, stirring the runny yolk idly. "He's more ready than you are. Hamish is ecstatic to be starting another chapter in his life, and I believe he might be a little tougher than you give him credit for. Fret not John, he'll very much be in one piece when I go to retrieve him."

There were loud footsteps on the stairs as both men turned to see Hamish bound in, his school uniform on. Sherlock had in the end won out against the battle of wills concerning schooling. But they had found a healthy medium in the form of a charter school. Mycroft had pulled several strings to ensure he got in and now little Hamish stood before them in his khaki shorts, navy blue polo and shiny little shoes. His hear was a curly mess and he beamed at them both.

"Ready!" he said, hands on his hips. John smiled, pulling the kettle off and Sherlock scraping the scrambled eggs onto a plate for his son.

"Don't forget your backpack." The detective said, pulling the chair out for him and taking the cup of tea offered to him by his husband.

Sherlock, wanting his son to be better at everything when he entered school, had taken the liberty of teaching his son how to read, write, and do simple math. John had protested but was secretly impressed that Hamish had caught on so well and that Sherlock was such a good teacher.

The boy ate his breakfast like a ravenous animal, John told him to slow down twice as he packed his son's belongings into his pack. "You know father's phone number and my clinic number?" he quizzed Hamish.

"Yes." He said.

"Our address?" Sherlock questioned, sipping his tea.

"221b Baker Street London, England." Hamish replied evenly, sipping some milk that had been poured for him.

"What do you do if a stranger approaches you?"

"Pressure points are located here, here and here." He motioned to various parts of the anatomy. "Press hard and then run as fast as I can. Reach a phone or a teacher and call you, dad, Uncle Mycroft, the British Foreign Relations Office, or Uncle Greg."

John seemed satisfied, Sherlock was not. "In the event of firearm possession?"

"Grab pinky, twist until in danger of breaking, bite, scratch face, and scream." Hamish said, as though bored with the conversation.

"Sherlock you just said he is going to be fine and here you are prepping him for a warzone." John said, exasperated.

"Luck favors the prepared John." The detective sniffed, picking up his son's now empty dish and putting it in the sink.

The doctor rolled his eyes as he helped Hamish into his backpack, standing back to look at the sight. "You look very handsome Hal." He said, reaching for the camera that had been set aside for this morning.

His son pouted. "_Dad_." He whined, he shared his father's hatred of photographs.

"Oh hush up and smile." John said, taking several quick snapshots.

Sherlock came to stand behind his husband, eyes appraising his son's uniform. "You do look very nice Hamish, but John if you don't want him to be late his first day I suggest you get moving." The detective opened his arms and stooped down for the boy to give him a hug.

"I'm going to make something for you today father," he told Sherlock's chest. "Will you keep it if I make it for you?"

"Of course," the detective replied, burying his head in his son's hair so that to John it looked like the pair was joined at the forehead, just a continuous flow of black curls. "It'll go with my case files and you know I never lose any of those."

Hamish smiled blindingly at him as John took his shoulder, shrugging his coat on and handing his son his. "Remember 3 o'clock Sherlock." He called as they headed down the stairs.

The morning air in London was foggy and damp, Hamish shivered against his dad's warm hand as the doctor hailed a cab for the two of them. "Are you excited?" John asked him once they boarded the taxi.

Hal nodded his head rapidly, looking out at the passing buildings. "Father said that I should try my hardest at doing well in school and not worry so much about making friends."

The doctor rolled his eyes; it was something only Sherlock would say. "I think you will find that people will definitely want to be your friend Hal." He reassured his son.

"But what if I don't want to make friends?"

The question alarmed John and he was unprepared for a moment. "Why don't you want to make friends?"

"Because what if they're like little Andersons?" Hamish's reply was blunt and fearful, he turned to look at his dad, fearful, and John knew that Sherlock had been planting seeds of doubt into his son's head. "What if they're stupid and slow and _what if they don't like me_?"

"First of all," the doctor said, absentmindedly running his fingers through Hamish's hair. "Father is no longer to be listened to on such matters. He isn't exactly best at making friends himself. Second, you will never meet a child as dense as Anderson. Third, they will love you Hal, just give them a chance and talk to them."

The child still looked uneasy but relaxed a tad bit as the taxi cab stopped in front of a grey building with children spilling into it. The pair unloaded themselves and John paid the cabby while his son looked awestruck at the school. "Ready?" John asked, holding his hand out as they walked up the steps together.

It was very crowded and very loud. Hamish drank everything in with his wide gray eyes as the doctor attempted to swim through the crowds of parents and children all trying to reach one destination. With some consulting of a piece of paper bearing directions, John managed to successfully locate his classroom, stepping through the door and finding that it was already partially filled with expectant students milling about with some toys.

The teacher stepped forward, seeing them enter, and smiled. "Hello, I'm Ms. Quinn, pleased to meet you." She said to John, then to Hamish, bending down. "And what is your name little boy?"

Hal looked ruffled at being called little and his dad prayed he wouldn't revert into a mini-Sherlock. "My name is Hamish." He stated, chin pointed up. "And I am slightly above average height for my age group."

John raised an eyebrow at his son but shook the woman's hand with a grin. "His father should be here at three to pick him up." He said to her, wanting to avoid later confusion when Sherlock would show.

The teacher nodded sympathy in her voice. "You're an uncle then?" she asked.

Of course, Mycroft had neglected to mention the fact that. Perfect. "No, I'm his dad. His father is my husband, erm- partner if you prefer."

Ms. Quinn's eyes grew very round and she looked taken aback. "Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't-,"

John stopped her with his hand. "It's alright, but he will be here at three, you can't miss him. He's tall, looks just like the little one here and definitely doesn't belong in a school filled with children." And then he got down on one knee to speak with his son. "You be good okay?"

Hamish was impatient, he was looking over at his classmates with longing. "_Okay_ dad." He said, itching to cross into the classroom.

John sighed, rubbing his temple as he stood back up. "Alright then, play nice with the-," his voice died in his throat as he watched his son dart off.

Walking back outside to hail another cab to go to work the doctor felt a smile creep onto his face as he thought of his son, playing with action figures happily.

"DAD!" a voice made him turn around to see a red faced Hamish standing on the steps, tears in his eyes. Ms. Quinn was halfway down the hallway to stop him but the boy was already outside and attached to John's leg. "I didn't think you'd leave!" he wailed into his dad's trousers.

"I have to go to work Hal!" he said, exasperated as he pried his son off of him. "I can't stay here all day and watch you."

This was the wrong thing to say, Hamish clung tighter still. "Then call Mrs. Hudson!" he said. "Get father! Don't leave me here by myself. Stay until lunch!"

The teacher looked rather put out; clearly she was irritated that Hamish had managed to figure out how to exit the room all by himself and had little to no regard for her authority. "Hal," he tried again, picking his son up and wiping away a stray tear. "You knew I was going to leave you all morning, what's with all this now?"

Hamish sniffled. "I didn't think you were going to actually _do_ it!" he exclaimed. "I thought you were going to stay and watch me! Like the way father says that I'm to go off by myself when we go to the park but he watches from a bench!"

John sighed, casting an apologetic glance towards Ms. Quinn as he sat his son down once more. "Listen Hal, you only have a few hours until it's time to go home. Father will come and get you and, tell you what, I'll tell him to go take you out to go see that new movie you've wanted to see at the cinema. Deal?"

Hamish studied his dad, looking for any signs of falsehood in his words, eventually nodding, wiping his own eyes. "Deal." He said.

"Good, now I'll see you when I get home. You remember my number, you know father's number, and you know where all anatomical pressure points are located on the body. You're all set for school." The teacher looked horrified at the last bit of Hamish's knowledge was revealed but kept her mouth shut as John hugged his son good-bye.

"Can I call you at lunchtime?" the boy asked quietly.

"You can call me anytime you need to." The doctor promised.

He watched Ms. Quinn lead his son back inside as he smiled, it was nice to see Hal take to school, but it was even better to see that he'd miss his parents while he was off learning new things.


	10. Parent Teacher Conferences

"Hamish is a very bright boy but he doesn't socialize correctly with others." The teacher said, sitting at her desk with hands clasped firmly together.

"Define correct." The detective challenged. John said nothing.

"He thinks it necessary to encourage others to not listen to directions and has gotten sent to the office several times because he shouts out 'wrong!' when someone says something that isn't right."

John looked upset but Sherlock was not the least concerned. "Well was _he_ right in saying wrong?"

"I beg your pardon?" the teacher looked puzzled. The taller man rolled his eyes.

"Sherlock-," John sensed trouble.

"Was he right? When he corrected them, was he right?" Sherlock repeated to the woman as if she was mentally disabled.

"I don't see how that matters-,"

"I'm sorry, do they actually allow you to teach my son or is the real educator hidden somewhere in the broom cupboard?" snapped the detective.

The teacher looked like a kicked dog as she cleared her throat. "It doesn't matter if he was right or not, but if you are so interested in knowing then _yes_ he has been correct when he feels the need to inform the other party that they are not."

John sat back in his chair. "So then who cares? He's right and you know it so why even bring it up."

The teacher turned a shade of red and Sherlock raised an eyebrow, looking at his husband. "Our son's outsmarted the teacher John, it's you he's been correcting all this while hasn't he miss?"

She stood, clearly done with the interview. "I'm sorry Mr. and Mr. Watson-Holmes, but I've got another appointment-,"

"Say no more, we understand that you're a little flustered, I would be too if I had a seven year old boy correct my teaching methods. In fact, I'd even begin to question if I was fit to teach." Sherlock stated, positively gleeful at this new revelation.

John kept his head bowed with proper shame until he made it into the hallway, turning on his husband. "Sherlock!"

"Oh John! Our son is a genius!" the detective was oblivious to the fact that he had offended. He seemed elated, stepping quicker, eager to get home and give his son an enormous hug.

"Sherlock!" the detective paused, turning to frown at his husband.

"What?" the man looked so startled as to why he was in trouble that John's lips twitched against his better judgement.

"The woman doesn't like you, you know that. Please _please_ try to be a little nicer to the next one." The doctor said, sighing as he took Sherlock's hand and squeezed it.

Parent-teacher conferences were always nightmare, John preferred to go alone but the detective was adamant they attend together, claiming that he needed to properly tend after his their son's education and it wouldn't suffice to do it seperately. This just meant that Hamish would spend the night either downstairs with Mrs. Hudson or over at the Lestrades' house with the Detective Inspector's bunch while John sat through Sherlock bullying the boy's teachers and demanding to know why on earth they ever thought they were mentally proficient enough to teach children.

Next was the gym teacher, Sherlock and John had a joined disliking of this one. The doctor's husband had recalled that he had the brain of Scotland Yard and the homophobia of Donovan and Anderson combined into one.

As the taller man pushed the door open to the gymnasium they spotted the behemoth of a man perched on a precariously small chair in the center of the basketball court. Sherlock smirked at him and gave John an impromptu kiss on the cheek to watch the educator frown and look away, his face red.

John pushed the detective away, trying not to provoke anyone as they sat down on the provided seats, both awaiting a review.

Finally the teacher spoke after giving disapproving glares to both. "Your son, Hamish, he's very smart but lacks the physical side of PE that's important to make the grade. He does alright at sports where teams are involved but for the most part he's very lazy-,"

Sherlock leaned forward, eyes flaring. "Lazy is not a word I would use to describe my son sir," John looked skyward, praying for patience. "Because he sees no point in running around a field does not mean he's lazy, it means he's ahead of the curve and an innovative thinker."

The gym teacher was not to be outdone, he moved his lips in such a way that his mustache quivered. "But it also shows that he is not capable of following simple instructions."

"Independent."

"Haughty."

"Able to develop his own opinions! Something you wouldn't understand judging by the fact that your wife has been making you eat healthier foods for the past three months and you despise it but fear her too much to talk back!" Sherlock said triumphantly. The gym teacher looked confused at first, then slowly began to stand and the detective's smile turned to a frown rather quickly.

John sought to intervene. "Right! Well it was certainly a pleasure meeting you again, but look at the time, Sherlock and I really must be off." He said hastily grabbing his husband and dragging him towards the direction of the door in a rapid manner.

The ride to Detective Inspector Lestrade's house was certainly a quiet one.

"I don't see why you're so upset John."

"You know damn well why I'm so upset, don't give me that rubbish." John snapped as they climbed the steps to Greg's house. Sherlock reverted back to wounded silence as the doctor rang the doorbell.

Mrs. Lestrade answered the door, a baby in her arms, complete chaos ruled behind her as she smiled weakly at the pair. "Oh hello, you're back early, I haven't got a chance to feed them yet."

Screeching children ran like wild animals inside and John cleared his throat. "Oh don't worry about it, we'll just take him on back to Baker Street." And they stepped inside.

The Detective Inspector was asleep on the couch as his eldest son, a spindly boy of sixteen, watched telly. John looks at the scene of destruction, trying to sort out his son's dark head of curls from the blonde and brown cluster that are the Lestrade clan.

It is Sherlock who eventually found him; he was hiding underneath a table with one of Greg's children, a boy his age who was named Travis. When he was found he tried to make a run for it but his father caught him and picked him up, preventing further fleeing.

"Thank you so much for watching him." John said quickly to Mrs. Lestrade as the family slipped back outside to the waiting cab.

Sherlock set his son down, taking his hand and John gives Hamish a look. "Your gym teacher says you don't like running around the field." He commented offhandedly, inspecting his seven year old for any signs of surprise.

None came and he was characteristically Sherlock in the way he kept a mask of calm about him. "I don't think it's important." He stated clearly. "Who really needs to run around for an hour when I could be doing something so much better?"

Sherlock smirked at John before raising a hand to set on his son's head. "Ahead of the curve." He repeated for emphasis.


	11. Deductions

"Why does it turn that color?"

"Because of the PH balance."

Sherlock and Hamish were at the lab while John was at the clinic, the detective hadn't been able to inspect the body so he had settled for a skype chat and was now working away at the hospital. His son perched delicately on a stool beside him, studying his father's every move. Molly Hooper was a ways away, watching the pair work and she couldn't help but smile at the concentrated expressions mirrored on both faces.

Sherlock leaned forward, holding the Petri dish up for Hamish too see. "You see the way it foams? What do you think that means?" he asked his son.

Hamish looked at it for a moment before answering, voice slow, as if working out the possibilities. "Because there was a reaction with what you put on it?"

The detective nodded, urging the boy on. "Very good, but use your observation skills. You see that it was a reaction, now ask _why_ Hamish. What was the outcome of the reaction?"

The eight year old looked at it again, but this time with a more analytical glare. "Brick dust." He stated, looking up to see Sherlock beaming at him.

"How do you know?" his father asked.

"Because of the location, and the reaction." The boy replied firmly, proud of the deduction he just made.

Sherlock nodded, affirming his statement. "Correct, so where do you think we can find the killer?"

Hamish's mind went blank as his eyes shifted back to the foaming brick dust. "Can you tell already father?" he asked.

"I can."

His son's shoulders slumped, upset that he couldn't see it too. "I don't know."

Sherlock set the little plate aside and moved to another. "Don't be too hard on yourself Hamish, remember I've been doing this for a little longer than you. But think, I know you can figure it out. Where would you find brick dust?"

"Anywhere. Bricks are everywhere."

The detective rolled his eyes. "Yes, but usually they are covered, where would you find bricks that are decayed enough to be giving off such dust?"

Hamish's mind raced as he tried to focus and figure it out. "A factory?" he asked.

"Good, now," Sherlock turned his attention to a bit of grass. "This was also found on the killer, what ties can you make to the brick dust?" he asked his son.

"That it's next to a field?"

"But why would he go tromping through a field? Surely there would be a road from the factory?"

"The factory's been abandoned and there's plant life growing inside?" Hamish tried again.

Sherlock looked pleased, nodding. "Good job you clever boy." He said. "So where do you think we can find him now if there's brick dust ingrained into his boot prints?"

"He spends a lot of time there so there's a chance he is back there now?" his son was working himself up, excited to seeing all the pieces come together.

His father smiled, prying his latex gloves off and standing up. "You are a genius Hamish, a consulting detective in your own right."

His son got down off of his stool and looked up at Sherlock. "Are we going to tell Uncle Greg?" he asked.

"Don't worry about it, I'll be sure to report your findings to the Detective Inspector. But I think we should get home, your dad should be making dinner right now." The detective said, checking his phone as he handed Hamish's coat to him, putting on his own.

His son waved good-bye to Molly and she returned the wave with a grin as the boy darted out into the hallway. Sherlock turned to the small woman and nodded his head before following his son out.

Sighing, Molly set down her lab report to go clean up after the Watson-Holmes boys and put away the old case file that Sherlock had chosen for Hamish to work through that day. She knew he had solved that earlier murder right after he had gotten done inspecting the corpse, but Sherlock always took Hamish down to the lab with an old case that had already been solved and helped the child deduce his way through it.

The boy was getting quite good at it, the other day Sherlock had required two cases, as Hamish had blown through the first one, explaining that it was the debris under the fingernails that gave clue to cause of death.

Molly never missed the air of pride in the consulting detective's voice as he nodded to his son and sat back. "Case closed Hamish."


	12. Fighting

John sat on the sofa, his face still red and his hands clenched into fists. Sherlock had stormed into their room and slammed the door, hard. The fights had been getting worse and worse, the third one this week and it was only Tuesday.

First it had been about picking Hal up from school. _"I can't do it, I'm busy."_ Sherlock had insisted, not looking up from his paper.

"_He's your son, you can't make time to go five minutes out of your way to go get him? Bring him to the lab, he loves watching you work!"_ John had retorted, due to a very pricey Christmas holiday the doctor was taking extra shifts at the surgery to pay off the debts that were accumulating. Mrs. Hudson had left a reminder with the post that the rent was three weeks past due.

The detective however, was positive it inconvenienced him too much. So, with anger burning in his belly, John had begged Sarah to let him take the half hour off to go retrieve Hamish, were the boy did his homework in the break room and went home at nine with his dad.

Sherlock was asleep by the time they arrived, he hadn't gone anywhere all day.

Then, it had been about money. _"You've taken seven extra shifts in the last two weeks John I don't understand how we still owe so much!" _Sherlock complained, frowning at the bills that were piling up.

"_It doesn't help that you're not taking on anymore cases." _His husband had snapped, cradling his mug of tea closer to his chest. They hadn't turned the heat on all day and the flat was cold. Hamish was bundled up on the couch, reading a thick novel about the Zodiac Killer.

"_I can't take those cases because they're all _boring_."_ Sherlock had exclaimed, as though it was a perfectly reliable excuse.

"_It's not about the game anymore Sherlock! It's about having enough bloody money to feed and clothe ourselves!"_ John had replied with a raised voice.

At the sound of the volume elevation Hamish looked up, alarmed. Both men were too busy glaring at each other to notice as their son snapped his book shut and retreated upstairs as louder shouts erupted.

And finally, John had drawn the line at Sherlock spending this week's paycheck on a new set of beakers and a Bunsen burner for the kitchen. The doctor had finished work early, stopping by Hamish's school to pick him up before catching another cab home.

He noticed his son was unusually quiet as the boy studied his scuffed converse. Hal's hair was getting unruly but in an act of individualism he demanded no one cut it. Presently, long black curls fell in the nine year old's line of sight as he stared at nothing with pensive gray eyes. It was times like this that John was struck by how much he was Sherlock's son. The warmth that normally clouded Hamish's eyes was gone; his eyes were slightly glazed as he moved all trace of activity into his mind.

"Whatcha thinking about Hal?" John asked, cocking his head. His son turned to look at him, his irises were cold and distant.

"Nothing." He replied quietly.

John had left it, the incident shoved out of his mind entirely when he stopped by the ATM machine and found that all money from the Watson-Holmes joint account had been removed. He double-timed it home, pushing open the door and surged up the stairs to find a brand new chemistry set on the table of the kitchen.

The doctor gaped at it, looking up to see Sherlock, goggles on, ignoring his presence entirely.

"What the _fuck_ is this?" John said, motioning helplessly towards the beakers filled up with mystery liquids. Hamish poked his head in curiously, widening his eyes and looking up at his father.

"You are in trouble." Was all the boy provided, turning tale and fleeing to his room, shutting the door.

Sherlock frowned, pulling his goggles off. "What?" he said, looking puzzled.

"What? _What?_ Is that really all you can say? Where did you get the money to buy this?" John said, attempting to keep his cool.

The detective set the protective eyewear on the table, now realizing where he had gone wrong. "…from our account."

"Is that not the account that we agreed was NOT FOR YOUR EXPERIMENTS?" the doctor shouted at his husband.

Sherlock looked put out, before quickly regaining his bearings and rearing up to full height, towering over his counterpart. "THERE WAS NO MONEY IN THE OTHER ACCOUNT JOHN!" he yelled back, brow furrowed.

John stepped away, walking into the living room. He clenched his hands and whipped around, pointing a finger at the taller man. "You know why there's no money in the other account Sherlock? Huh? Because I can't work twenty-four seven! Because someone needs to look after our son while you're off flouncing around London!" his chest was heaving. "I've had it with you this past month! All you ever seem to do is demand and take, when's the last time you took on extra cases to help out around here?"

The detective was turning a dark red color. "Don't lecture me on parenting skills John!" he said roughly. "You expect me to be there every waking moment? Clearly you're not, why should I? I've got things to do-,"

"Like yesterday when you needed to go to St. Bart's and all you did was stay home and PRACTICE THE VIOLIN? Like those kinds of things to do?"

"I DID GO AND THEY WERE OUT OF LEFT HANDED MIDDLE FINGERS!"

"WELL HERES ONE LEFT HANDED MIDDLE FINGER FOR YOU!" John shouted, brandishing said finger.

Sherlock looked murderous as he walked out of the room, the door to their bedroom slamming much louder than necessary. John felt the walls rattle as he collapsed onto the sofa.

The sound of a timid doorknob turning and a creak of a hinge as it gave way brought the army doctor out of his stupor as his son's head poked in. He turned to look at Hamish and was stricken by the fearful gaze that met him.

"Hal what's wrong?"

"You and Father are fighting again." The boy murmured. "Third time this week. It's only Tuesday."

John sighed, rubbing his temples. "Things are… difficult right now." He said, opening his arms. Hamish hesitated a few seconds before stepping forward and allowing himself to be engulfed by his dad's warm jumper.

The doctor was once again reminded of Sherlock as he attempted to contain Hamish's arms and legs, now spilling out over the sides of the embrace. The boy had sprouted up an inch in the past year and he had become quite gangly. "Are you going to get a divorce?" Hamish blurted out from John's arms.

The question took him by surprise and he looked down at his son, bewildered. "What? No, of course not Hal. Where did you get that from?"

"You've been fighting a lot… I did some research online and one website said that money is one of the reasons some people divorce, it also makes them quarrel constantly." The words came tumbling out of the boys mouth, his eyes watering as he worked himself up with the thought of his parents separating.

John set his jaw, looking at Hamish and shaking his head. "No, we are not separating. You're father and I have arguments but that doesn't change how we feel about each other. Not one bit."

"Or how we feel about you." A voice cut in and both boys on the sofa looked up to see Sherlock leaning in the doorway, his face expressionless as he looked at his son. Hamish sniffled, nodding as he struggled to sit up. "I'm aware that I haven't been… the most amiable flatmate in the past few days. I'd be honored if you'd forgive me and allow us to start the week over." The detective said, walking towards them and stopping a few feet short.

His son looked at him and nodded but John frowned. "Will you return the chemistry set?" he asked suspiciously eyeing the liquids sitting in the glass containers.

Sherlock's eyebrow twitched. "I need it for experi-," his voice died in his throat as both Hamish and John glowered at him. He cleared his throat and began again. "Yes."

"Then I suppose I can find it in me to forgive you." The doctor said. "And I'm also sorry, for… losing my temper."

Night crept upon the family as Sherlock and John retreated to their bedroom. Both men lay in bed, tangled together and breathing gently.

"John," Sherlock's voice broke through the silence.

"Hm?" his bedmate replied.

"I'll take Hamish to school in the morning."

"Okay."

More quiet. The doctor had almost drifted off to sleep.

"John," the detective persisted.

"What?" came the slightly annoyed response.

"I love you."

"Love you too. Now shut up you impossible man so I can get some sleep." John said into the pillow, trying his best to mask his smile as his husband's arms wrapped around him and lips pressed into the side of his neck.


	13. Legos

John sat on the floor with his son; the boy was hunched over a lego set of the space station that they had bought him. Hamish's brow was furrowed in a way that reminded of a younger version of him as the boy looked over the wide array of blocks and then back at the directions. Sherlock was in their room working something out on his laptop.

"You're never going to put it together if you don't touch the pieces." John commented. His son turned and looked at him, surprised to find him there.

"Father says I should try and assemble it in my head before moving any of the blocks." He replied, shifting his gray orbs back towards the directions. "It'll help with my deduction skills."

John nodded, hauling himself to his feet and going to the kitchen to make some tea. As he negotiated his way through the minefield that was Sherlock's experiments he heard a hesitant _click_ of two bricks being pushed into another and snapping together. The doctor put the kettle on to boil then turned around to lean against the counter and saw Hamish's arms furiously working to create a replica of the picture shown on the box.

By the time he had poured himself a cup and gone back over he was alarmed to see a fully-rendered space station perched on the ground of their flat. Hamish was inspecting it critically, hands pressed together as if in prayer.

"It doesn't look right." The boy complained, his shoulders slumping over.

"It doesn't?" John questioned, sipping his tea and picking up the box to inspect. "It looks the exact same." He added, lowering his eyebrows.

Hamish shook his head, starting to take apart the blocks one by one and laying them back out on the ground, examining each piece again. "Dad, could you go in another room or something?"

"What? Why?" the doctor asked, looking at his son.

"You're disrupting my thoughts."

John raised an eyebrow. "How?"

"Just… I can feel your eyes, it's distracting."

The older man opened his mouth to say something when Sherlock's voice broke through. "John, leave the boy alone, he's going to his Mind Palace."

John tittered as Hamish's cheeks flushed. "It's _not_ a palace!" he hollered back. "It's just a place to go to collect your thoughts!"

"Mind Palace." His dad giggled, leaving the living room to go see what Sherlock was up to.


	14. Valentine's Day

**AN: Was meant to be a lovable drabble about V day buuuut I rewatched Reichenbach shortly before writing. Enjoy your angsty-ness. **

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><p>It was a very quiet night; John tapped anxiously against his knee as his eyes wandered over to Hamish, who was hunched over his homework, curls spilling every which way.<p>

"He said he'd be here by now." The child complained, looking up from his maths to peek at the clock. It was Valentine's Day and the parents could find no one to babysit, so Sherlock suggested they all go out to dinner.

_The holiday celebrates love_, the tall man had observed. _So I don't see why Hamish cannot accompany us, he certainly meets the criteria. I love him, I love you. You love him, you hopefully love me. Everyone is happy._ John had agreed, thinking it a perfectly fine thing to do.

However, it looked as though such an event was not going to take place as he followed his son's eyes to the clock and saw the time. Hal had school tomorrow, and if Sherlock didn't make an appearance soon then they'd have a problem on their hands.

"Father's not coming." The boy said, his shoulders slumping in disappointment. "He said he'd make it home and he's not coming."

John sighed, rubbing his eyes. "He said he'd come, keep in mind that he's solving a very important case right now Hal."

His son sniffed, as unforgiving as Sherlock would be for such a crime as tardiness. "They're _all_ important cases to him, really though, would it matter all that much if he didn't work for one night? The person is already dead it's not as if they have any need for a quick solution."

"Hamish!" John said sharply, reprimanding the boy. Hamish said nothing in reply, busying himself with his homework.

The sour quips and moods had become a reoccurring theme as of recent and the boy's dad didn't understand them. Sure, he had gone through a rebellious phase, but not at the age of ten, and certainly in not such a waspish way as his son.

He would snap at someone or say something rude and John would quickly correct. It wasn't the mean air to his words that terrified the doctor, it was the way that the behavior was so distinctly… Sherlock. It was the haughty way he would toss his head as he stormed away, or the way he wrinkled his nose in disdain. His husband saw it too and there was worry in his eyes.

The door to the flat opened and both John and Hamish turned their head towards the door to the living room and waited for the detective to make an appearance. Hal abandoned his chair and was ready to tackle his father in a hug, already striding forward.

"John!" there was a call from the stairway as a dark figure staggered up the steps. The soldier then knew something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong.

Hamish halted, coming to a stop in the middle of the room as the light fell upon Sherlock's face and the distinct smell of blood mingled with the air of 221B. The man's dark hair was matted and tangled, his jacket ripped and torn at, along with a very prominent shoulder gash staining the sleeve a deep burgundy. A nasty cut was tracing the prominent curve of his left cheekbone and one eye was swelling. He was clutching his side and leaning heavily on the wall.

All at once everything spun in slow motion as John stood up and ran to the aid of his husband right as he collapsed onto the ground, his head resting at Hamish's feet, who took in the whole scene with wide gray eyes. The sound of gargling was heard as Sherlock tried to spit out blood, but managing to procure a molar instead.

"Hal go call an ambulance!" John told his son. Hamish did nothing, he stayed rooted to the spot, eyes glued to his father's beaten face. "Hal? HAMISH!" the shouting jarred the boy from his thoughts and very tentatively he grabbed his dad's mobile phone and did as he was told.

"John..." Sherlock hissed through his teeth as the doctor began to inspect the extent of the damage. "John stop it, that hurts."

"Hello? I need an ambulance, my father's been attacked." Hal said numbly into the phone, his gaze still stuck on Sherlock. "221B Baker Street…" his voice faded out of John's consciousness as he worked feverishly over the man laying on the floor.

There were multiple cuts, scrapes, gashes littering the normally pristinely pale skin that John had grown to adore. Panic set in as moved up to the shoulder to find that there wasn't just one big laceration, but it was several closely spaced together in such a way that they could pass as one.

"Sherlock," John breathed, raggedly. "What happened to you?"

The man on the floor wheezed, his chest rising and falling slowly. "Case… solved it." How it was possible for someone to sound so smug when in such pain was unknown to the doctor as he pressed a hand to Sherlock's cheek, feeling blood wet his hands.

Sometime in that space Hamish had found his way to the other side of the consulting detective and was looking at his father's very battered body with a trembling lips. Sherlock cracked his good eye and looked at his son. "Hello." He said nonchalantly, as if he wasn't bleeding profusely on the floor of their flat.

"Hello." Hamish replied, a fat tear slipping from the corner of his eyes before he wiped it. "How are you?"

"Good." The detective replied, closing his eyes again. "Did you finish your homework?" he asked. The sound of the paramedics were heard outside as they stopped on their street. They came in through the door that had been left open.

"Yes." Hal replied, smoothing his father's matted curls back out of his face. Sherlock smiled faintly.

"Good, I'll see you in the morning." He murmured as the EMTs scooped him up onto a stretcher. "Happy Valentine's Day." He added to both of them as they put an oxygen mask over his face, releasing John's hand.

The doctor grabbed his phone from Hamish and put the device to his ear, talking rapidly into it as his son followed the medical technicians downstairs, watching them pack his father away in their ambulance. John was then outside, bending down next to him.

"Hamish, Uncle Mycroft is coming to get you-,"

"I want to stay with father!" the boy insisted, not taking his eyes off of the closing doors.

"You can't love, I need to ride with him, please Hal just do as you're told-,"

"What if something bad happens?" demanded his son, nostrils flaring as he turns his frustration on his dad. "What if I'm not there! I need to go in case he gets better and wants to go to dinner." More tears spilled over the side of Hamish's face as John wiped them away.

The doctor heard Mycroft's car pull up, the EMT's were getting antsy, demanding John board or risk being left behind. "Everything's going to be fine love, but we're not going to dinner tonight."

"You don't know that!" he snarled, John opened his mouth to say something when the driver of the ambulance barked at him to get in and he could only satisfy himself with a brief kiss and hug bestowed on his son and then he was inside the vehicle now speeding away.

Mycroft Holmes put a hand on his nephew's shoulder and the boy didn't even acknowledge him as he glared at the ambulance rapidly disappearing down the road. "He will be fine, your father's had worse papercuts." The older man observed.

Hamish turned his head slightly to look at his Uncle, sniffling. "We were supposed to go to dinner." He said, rubbing his eyes.

"Yes, well Sherlock always had an affinity for ruining plans."

The sounds of Sherlock's constricted breathing would last in Hamish's memory almost as long as the bloodstains on the floor.


	15. Let's Have Dinner

**AN: I thought I should go easy on you since I've recovered from my reopened wounds... Reichenbach always hurts when I watch and so I decided to give you a little fluffy domestic scene. Well, it would be incredibly fluffy if I wasn't being realistic about how Sherlock would be an upstart, Hamish would be a little imp, and John would have to be the mature individual in the situation. Still pretty fluffy though.**

**Love the reviews, keep 'em comin'. ALSO: I don't speak French, fortunately, Google Translate does. You might have to do some ctrl+c ctrl+v-ing for this fic. Sowwry. **

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><p>"Did you wash your hands?"<p>

"What kind of a question is that? Do you take me for an idiot?"

"So you didn't wash your hands."

"It's unnecessary." Sherlock snapped at his husband, turning back to his work, chopping vegetables. "As is cooking."

Hamish said nothing, smiling into the pot as he peeled potatoes. John set his jaw, praying for patience before stirring the soup with brisk strokes. He was wearing an apron he had borrowed several years ago from Mrs. Hudson and had never gone around to giving it back, it was pink with little lace frills and a kitten paw print.

Once Greg Lestrade had walked in on John cooking when Hamish was six, coloring away at the uncluttered section of the kitchen table and commented on what a good little housewife he was. This wasn't a malicious observation but John felt deeply offended, and after taking a look at his life concluded that he _did_ indeed seem like a housewife. He cooked for Hal, he cleaned (sort of, most of Sherlock's rubbish remained stubbornly in place despite his best efforts. He suspected that his husband had taken to gluing it to the tables and floors.), and overall just stayed put while Sherlock was off flouncing around London doing God-knows-what. Of course, then the only thing he suffered from was a wounded ego, he loved Hamish and staying home with him wasn't all bad, but he still felt entirely useless.

Sherlock, never missing anything, noticed and over the span of several weeks had connected the dots, since then, at least once a week dinner had been a family affair. The consulting detective always complained, but John simply supposed it was his way of reaffirming that he was in no way going soft.

Currently, Hamish stood up, hitching the pot filled with potatoes as high as his gangly arms would sustain, and set it on the counter next to his dad. "You want me to set them on the range?" he asked, flipping his curls impatiently out of his eyes.

The hair was now becoming a problem, Hal was beginning to look a bit like a poorly-groomed dog and he pitched fits whenever the subject of cutting it came about. Sherlock didn't care too much (_"It's just hair for God's sake."_) but when Hamish's grandmother had seen the state and length of the black mop on her only grandson's head she had gone mad.

John wasn't entirely sure of what she had said, but he knew it wasn't good by the hand-wringing, cigarette smoking, and French that had spewed from her mouth in an angry fashion.

"_Vous dites à votre père de vous prendre pour un salon de coiffure ou si je vais le couper moi-même!"_ she had said hysterically, gesturing to the lanky boy's locks.

Hamish hadn't seemed pleased at all, Sherlock even less. John had sat quietly, sipping his tea and watching the banter with interest.

"_C'est seulement les cheveux!" _Sherlock had exclaimed, rolling his eyes at his mother.

"_Votre fils vous ressemble l'ai ramassé dans la rue!"_ she had shouted back.

The cab ride back to Baker Street was filled with silence and sulking on both Hamish's and Sherlock's part.

The consulting detective's laugh roused John from his thoughts, looking over his shoulder to see Sherlock grinning at something his son had said. Hal too was giggling as he poked at the potatoes in the stock pot.

"What's so funny?" the doctor frowned. As if on cue, both parties fell silent, except for the conspiring look they shot each other before straightening up and attending to their respective tasks with newfound interest. "Oi!" he persisted.

"_Nothing_ dad!" Hamish said, exasperated. John's scowl deepened and he felt very self-conscious in his apron all of a sudden.

Sherlock set down his knife, looking at the perfectly minced vegetables with narrowed eyes before picking up the cutting board and going over to the range where John was standing. He stood behind his husband, reaching around to drop the contents into the soup, his lips inches from the other man's ear.

"Why the sudden discomfort John? I personally think you look ravishing, the frilly lace really takes the cake." The soldier shivered at the tone but was soon put out as Hamish burst out laughing, so enthusiastically that he began snorting.

John elbowed his husband in the ribs hard, Sherlock protested but allowed himself to be shooed away, a smirk playing on his lips as Hal struggled to regain his wits. "Alright, alright yes I know, it's hilarious. Now Hal, please, are the potatoes ready yet?"

Still tittering, his son checked and gave a shaky nod. "Y-yeah." He almost gasped.

Now thoroughly annoyed, both the boys got a glare from John as he turned his body away from them in a childish gesture. "Fine then, please clear the table Hal and Sherlock you can set it while I dish up dinner."

Sherlock looked positively gleeful, eyes alight, an expression mirrored by the ten year-old at his side. "Will you be wearing your apron to the table dear?"

The pale man and his smaller accomplice lost it all over again, howling. Sherlock was so taken by his own cleverness that he was leaning against the counter to support himself. Hamish was clutching his side as he stumbled to the table to move some of the beakers and questionable materials out of the way, shoulders still shaking furiously.

John clenched his jaw, and with constricted arm jerks, untied his apron and took it off, revealing nothing but the jumper beneath it. "Happy now! Can we get on with our lives and eat some dinner?"

"No- no John, leave it on… it's so," Sherlock paused for breath. "Flattering!" more fits of laughter.

John gave him the most withering glare he could muster. "Set the bloody table." He growled.

The detective did as he was told as soon as his son was done with his task. Hamish raised an eyebrow at a Tupperware container holding some strange sticky blue gel. "Should we get some disinfectant or something to wipe the table down with first?" he questioned, sniffing the opening before gagging.

Sherlock plucked it from his hands. "Easy, I've been monitoring that culture for weeks Hamish!" he said sharply, stowing it away in the fridge for safekeeping. John looked at the table, it had endured an incredible beating over the years but he admired its courage to stand up against whatever his husband had thrown at it.

"Whatever was on that table had been wafting through the air of this flat since before you were born Hal, if we were going to contract some random disease or develop a mutation from your father's experiments it would've been sooner." Was all the doctor provided, pushing a stack of plates into Sherlock's hands.

"Benedict, says that he found a mutant in the gutter on his way to school one day." Hamish said conversationally, looking up at his dad.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Pray tell, who is Benedict?"

"A kid from school."

"Be sure to inform Benedict that he is an idiot and please don't spend more time in his company than necessary."

John shot his husband a disapproving glance. "Sherlock!"

"What?" the detective frowned.

Hamish took a seat at the table, to be joined moments later by both his parents. John ladled the soup and forked the appropriate amount of potato onto his son's plate as Sherlock dished himself a meager portion of both.

"Did you do your homework tonight?" the pale man asked, looking over at Hamish, who was busy shoving food into his mouth.

There was a noncommittal reply from his overstuffed mouth and John gave him a reproachful look. "Come on Hal, swallow first."

"I said _yes_." retorted the boy, flipping his hair out of his eyes with an attitude to rival Sherlock's most distinguished pouts.

The detective raised an eyebrow in warning, but said nothing more on the matter. He instead, turned his head towards his husband. "Lestrade gave me another case this morning."

"You told me." John replied, slurping his soup. "Triple homicide, no one else in the room and something about a diamond necklace if I recall."

Hamish perked up at the mention of the case. "Father when am I going to get to go to a crime scene and watch you?" he asked, eyes eager.

The doctor's eyes narrowed, flitting back to Sherlock's face who was studiously studying his fork. "Crime scene?" he hissed. "You are not taking our son to a crime scene Sherlock!"

"But I've been before!"

"You were _two_ Hamish and through no intent of my own you wound up there." replied John, turning his attention back to his husband.

Sherlock sighed. "It can't do any real harm John, I mean, the body would already be gone."

The soldier leaned back in his chair, setting his spoon down. "Is this what you two have been plotting in French, when I thought you were helping him keep up on the language? I knew there was something up!" he said, throwing his hands in the air. "Well I've picked up a bit of French as well and here's what I'll tell you: _Pas moyen de l'enfer_."

"Please John," the detective looked annoyed. "We're _eating_."

Hamish seemed quite upset that his wish might not end up coming true due to the differences in opinion between the parents. "Buuuuut daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaad," he whined.

"Not one more word out of you about it or I'm dragging you off to a barbershop tomorrow and you'll exit with hair that's at an appropriate length that doesn't make you look like a Shih Tzu." John interjected, pointing his finger across the table and raising his eyebrows in the standard all-business, no-nonsense tone that Hal knew better than to challenge.

The table went silent. "You've got to teach me how to do that." Sherlock murmured quietly to John, who, despite being considerable frustrated with his husband, couldn't resist cracking a smile.

Hal sulked over the Encyclopedia Britannica (he'd been chipping away at it for a few weeks) for the remainder of the evening while Sherlock and John reviewed CCTV footage concerning the triple homicide.


	16. Oscars

**AN: This wasn't supposed to have been a chapter, but I thought about it right as the award wasn't given out to HP so I'm making it a chapter because I think John and Hal would've disagreed, and Sherlock would've remained painfully indifferent.**

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><p>"Dad! It's on!" Hamish shouted up to John, perched precariously on his father's armchair, long arms wrapped around his knees.<p>

"Alright I'm coming!" there was clattering as the doctor struggled to get downstairs in time. Sherlock poked his head in from the kitchen, furrowing his brow.

"What's on? What are you watching Hamish?" the detective said, unable to get a good look at the screen with his safety goggles strapped to his head.

Hal looked up at him for a brief moment. "The Academy Awards." He replied.

John came in, his head still wet from his shower, a pair of pajama pants all he had on. "Right, Morgan Freeman, god he's gotten old." He said, motioning towards the screen while running a hand through his soppy hair.

Sherlock frowned, rolling his eyes in disgust. "You watch this rubbish?" he scoffed.

Hamish gave him a pointed glare. "If you don't want to watch it you don't have to." His son replied, leaning his chin on his knees.

"I don't intend to." The detective sniffed, sweeping back into the kitchen to go fiddle with some more toxic materials.

John chuckled to himself and leaned back into his armchair, turning his attention back to the screen just in time to protest at the award being handed over. "NO! Harry Potter had that one in the bag!" he yelled, gesturing wildly at the telly. "I mean, did you see those goblins?" he said, leaning over to say to Hamish.

Hal nodded. "I know, remember we went to go see it dad? You cried at the end."

"I did not cry." John snapped, folding his arms heavily across his chest.

"Yes you did!" called Sherlock from the kitchen.


	17. So Small Yet So Big

**AN: Hey guise. It's been a while, sorry I've had a lot on my plate right now and such but here's an emotionally deep drabble.**

** Also, ****Obvious Pirates of the Caribbean reference is obvious. **

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><p>Hamish had insisted on renting a movie and since he had no school tomorrow John had agreed. The promise of a relaxing weekend was beginning to help him unwind and he smiled as the ten year-old stood on tiptoe to look over the counter in order to rent the DVD. Some movie about pirates and black pearls, Hal was absolutely mad for that sort of thing nowadays.<p>

Sherlock had just solved a case and was waiting at home for the pair of them, huffing a bit but ultimately agreeing to join them. _"I don't know why you're so fond of these types of movies Hamish,"_ the detective had said idly, sitting down on the couch. _"Really, you should indulge your senses in something a tad more intelligent."_

"_Says the man who wanted to be a pirate when he was his son's age."_ John had added, smiling as Sherlock scowled at him.

They had all settled down eventually, Hamish putting the movie in the DVD player and then clambering onto his father's lap, Sherlock wrapping an arm around his waist to keep him from teetering off his narrow legs. The doctor hadn't realized just how tired he was until he was curled up on the sofa, cheek resting on his husband's shoulder with his slender white hands massaging circles into the back of his neck. Drowsiness set in and he kept his eyes shut a little longer each time.

Sherlock was aware that John had been sleeping for a few minutes now, but he continued to rub the man's neck gently. The movie droned on and even Hamish seemed to grow heavier in his arms, the boy's breathing evening out. His son's curly head was resting in the hollow of his neck and he shifted slowly, stirring in sleep, and the detective steadied him automatically. An unintelligible noise escaped Hamish's mouth and his head lolled back to reveal a very still pale face, and a slightly ajar jaw.

The tall man's eyes flitted down to look at his son's face and realized just how small he really was, especially when he was asleep. So small, yet, so frightfully big. When had been the last time he had been dragged up from the kitchen table by this boy to go to the park? Or gone with him and John to the zoo to look at the animals?

Hamish had adored the zoo, he used to press his chubby face against the glass and squeal at the animals, as if that would make them come closer. The smaller replica of him was growing more and more each day, even the baby fat was melting from his facial features, the cheekbones were becoming more pronounced.

Sherlock couldn't remember the last time he had read the child in his arms a bedtime story. No, Hamish didn't need him to read to him anymore, he could read the books himself. With a twist of his heart he recalled trying to calm his son down enough to read the book that the boy would pick out. More often than not it was some adventure story, a detective novel they would work through night after night until they would go to the bookstore and pick another.

The bookstore, had they gone recently? Did Hamish even enjoy the bookstore still? The fact that he didn't know the answer to these questions severely bothered Sherlock. He remembered fondly that his son would jump at the chance to go with his father, both of them making the journey together, giving John some peace and quiet. He had been small enough for the detective to put on his shoulders then, and they would remain in that shop for hours at a time, Sherlock attempting to explain and suggest books. He still held the images of the boy pouring over old musty pages, wonder and excitement in his eyes, despite the fact that he didn't know what the words meant.

This child in his arms was hardly a child at all anymore, a few more year a teenager, then, gone forever. Off to college, married, children. It wouldn't stop, and the notion was never more horrifying than it was now. Sherlock was perfectly aware that children grew up and there was no avoiding it, and he had never felt anything negative or sentimental about the aging process. Hamish had been a good child and a clever one, and the detective had been eager to watch his learning progress. He had been a sort of experiment at first, for he hadn't known any other way to go about raising him. But over time affection had bloomed and taken root rapidly, he hadn't experienced such a draw to one person since John had kissed him all those years ago in this same living room, sparking something long and wonderful.

All the days of Hamish toddling around the flat were gone, the moments when he had woken and found him in asleep in his and John's bed spent, and the times of him spending nights in the baby's room cradling him to cease the crying were depleted. Sherlock wanted the memories to stop coming and going so fast.

John opened his eyes lazily to see that the DVD menu was up. His head was still resting on Sherlock's shoulder and he lifted his gaze to see the detective's eyes plastered to Hamish's sleeping form. The detective's hands were wrapped around him like he was still and infant and he looked deep in thought.

"Sherlock?" the doctor said groggily, yawning and rubbing his eyes idly.

His husband turned his head to looked at the man resting against him. "Good to see you're up." He murmured.

"Yeah, must've drifted off." John replied, sitting up. "Hal drifted off too I suppose."

Sherlock nodded, eyes distant. "When's the last time we went to the zoo?" he asked abruptly.

"The… zoo? Sherlock did I miss something while I was asleep?" John was confused; he straightened up, stretching his back.

The taller man shook his head. "No, it's just… we haven't been to the zoo." Something about his tone sounded incredibly forlorn. "We should go, soon."

The army doctor cocked an eyebrow. "Sure, we could go this weekend, I remember Hal loved looking at the honeybee hives they had." He wrapped his arms around his husband and kissed his jawline gently. "What's wrong Sherlock?"

"Our son is almost a teenager John." His voice was very low. "Where did the time go? He's ten. Ten years old. A decade."

"Things change, people grow up, but we've had a rather nice time of it haven't we?" John replied. "You're an amazing father, he admires you more than anyone else. You're like his superhero, Sherlock Watson-Holmes the consulting detective. You've taught him about chemicals and compounds, and how to deduce, everything but the solar system… but that's alright, he wasn't really fond of it to begin with." The detective's mouth twitched and the doctor smiled into his skin. "Now, let's but Hal to bed and go spend some time together."

Gingerly, Sherlock rose with Hamish in his arms; the boy was a lot heavier than he had been last time he had picked him up. He grunted quietly, and his son stirred slightly, sighing as he wrapped his arms around his father's neck and burrowed into the lapels of his suit jacket. John could help but feel like a foolish over-emotional twat at the sight of Sherlock cradling the boy to his chest so gently.

The detective frowned at his husband's expression. "What?" he asked.

"Nothing, it suits you."

"What suits me?"

"This." The doctor motioned helplessly at him.

Sherlock smiled and readjusted his hold on Hamish. "Come along Mister Watson-Holmes, we've got a child to put to bed before I can properly have my way with you." His voice deepened suggestively at the last bit.

John stood, taking the free hand that his husband offered him and the pair climbed the stairs, the soldier waiting in the doorway as Sherlock lay Hamish in his bed, removing his shoes and kissing him once on the forehead. The detective then turned his attention to John, closing his son's bedroom door before kissing him quite passionately.

A memory struck the doctor as he began to chuckle, much to Sherlock's chagrin. "Why," kiss. "Are," kiss. "You," kiss. "Laughing?" he trailed to the smaller man's neck.

"Just remembering something."

"Do share."

"Remember when we found out Hal was a boy?" John whispered into Sherlock's ear.

"Vaguely." Hummed the other man.

"You said that you were going to be a rubbish parent, and that everything would go wrong."

"Not in those exact words." Corrected the detective.

"Well, just, look at you now; kissing him goodnight, helping him with homework at the table on school nights. I'd say you turned out top notch as far as fathers go." The doctor said tenderly, pressing his lips to Sherlock's cheek.

The other man looked at a loss for words, his eyes brimming with emotion that could never be accurately conveyed. "You've no idea how much that means John." He said instead in a small voice.

"I think I do."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"I highly doubt that."

John grinned at the banter that had never ceased a day in their lives together, not since he had first entered 221B. "Why don't I show you?" he teased.

Sherlock shivered. "I think you should do that." He murmured, allowing himself to be lead downstairs to their bedroom.


	18. Haircut

**AN: Heyo, it's been a while, sorry about the wait. Hal's hair has been seriously neglected though so if I'm updating I might as well ensure that his poor mop is reigned in. Love you guise, please review.**

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><p>Hamish craned his head up to look at the sign on the front of the shop, it loomed forebodingly above him. The Sherlock-like scowl cemented on his face now got deeper. He cast a withering look at both his parents before tossing his mane of curls and stomping inside.<p>

John sighed and rolled squeezed Sherlock's hand. "He's never speaking to us again you know," he said to the detective. "He told me so this afternoon when he was eating his sandwich."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Goodness whatever will we do without his joyously optimistic views on us lingering about in the air?"

His husband chuckled as he held the door open for the taller man to enter. Hamish was waiting by the door, readily equipped with more angry looks. He directed one squarely at his dad and before he could muster the full force of one for Sherlock he was counterattacked by what John called 'Sherlock's Parenting Glare'.

It had taken the detective a while to perfect, because whenever Hamish had been younger and he had received that famed look he would simply burst into tears due to the intensity, earning a sharp chastising from John. So Sherlock had lessened up but still, the Look could render the most unruly attributes of Hamish's behavior bunk.

Such the Look was doing its job now. John watched the two locked in a telepathic battle of wills with mild interest. Hal averted his eyes first, meaning Sherlock had won over and with a loud exhale the sore loser was back to sulking.

"It's only hair Hamish." The pale man stated crisply, taking his gloves off while his husband got the attention of the hairdresser.

This was clearly the wrong thing to say. So wrong that Hamish broke his vow of infinite silence to correct him. "Only hair?" he said, outraged. "Father I thought you were on my side!"

"I'm not picking sides, besides, it's gotten ridiculous to the point where your grandmother is threatening to cut it herself." The detective responded, picking a stray lock out of his son's eyes. Hamish pushed his hand away and Sherlock frowned.

"It's fine, all the kids at school say it's cool." He whined, attempting to appeal to his Father's nature, even while John directed him to a barber's chair.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "If all the children at your school jumped off a bridge would you?"

"Yes." The Watson-Holmes men looked at each other, unsure whether they should feel concerned by the readiness of the reply.

The barber chewed his gum loudly while getting some scissors ready. "How short you want?" he said, a thick Italian accent obscuring most of what he was trying to communicate.

Hamish straightened his back, attempting the Look on the man with his cold gray eyes. "Only the ends." He instructed.

John ignored his words and spoke over him. "I want to be able to see his forehead, his ears, and the back of his neck. Those are the only requirements and Hal can direct you in the ways of style."

The barber nodded, turning his attention to the boy in his chair. "What style you want?"

"The style of freedom." The child replied sharply.

"Is not style I know." Said the barber briskly, effectively crushing the dramatic moment Hal was going for, much to his parents' amusement.

"He is your son." Murmured John from the corner of his mouth as they stood a ways off, watching the hairdresser go to work on snipping off the boy's curls. "Hair, face, eyes, even his god-awful attitude."

Sherlock smirked, rocking back on his heels and folding his arms over his chest. "I'm unsure whether or not to pick a fight with you over that." He replied.

John shrugged, his own grin widening. "Well you did give me a very happy life. But you like to pepper it with difficult times and acid burns on my kitchen table."

"Please John, you talk as if people are entitled to smooth sailing twenty-four seven." The detective said, but the doctor didn't miss the bit of coloring on his cheekbones.

"Oh, I gave up on having smooth sailing years ago, about the time Hamish started to walk in fact. You see, when we had first gotten married I thought it'd be bumpier, but nothing really changed-,"

"That's not true at all!" Sherlock interjected, eyeing his husband. "We were shagging quite heavily if I recall."At the taller man's words a woman and her daughter both looked up, horrified at the conversation snippets they were catching and in reply the Look seared them into silence.

"Besides for the shagging." John corrected quickly. "I mean, sometimes you'd be off and I could have a whole day to myself. Even a little bit when Hamish was still incredibly young. But the minute he started wobbling around was the day that went out the window."

Hamish looked at his parents' faces through the reflection of the mirror, Sherlock mused that it was so much nicer to finally be able to see his face. "Hamish, I had no idea you were still alive." His Father said evenly. "I thought you'd have suffocated under your hair by now."

"Faaaaaaaaaaaaaaather!"

John laughed. "Isn't it funny how he can make a one syllable word one with ten or fifteen in it instead? You should write Haikus Hal, or Sonnets." He told his son. Hamish's scowl creased his mouth. Sherlock chuckled.

When the barber finishes their son looks quite different. With his hair so short he looks a lot like Sherlock, frighteningly so, John admits to himself. The doctor lags behind, checking messages on his mobile while the Father/son duo walk in front, hand in hand, discussing science.

"I'm never cutting my hair when I turn eighteen." Hamish confides to Sherlock.

"I think when you turn eighteen you'll find yourself to not hold the same opinions." The detective says wisely.

His son looks dubious. "But when I'm grown up I'll know exactly what to do." He sounds so sure.

"Things change. Not everyone knows what to do all the time." His Father reminds.

"You always know what to do." The boy challenges.

"Because I have your Dad here to help me. I'm really nothing without him Hamish." The taller man replies evenly.

Behind them, John smiles.


	19. Fort Baker Street

Sherlock was quite sure he'd walked into the wrong flat. He set his keys down and took in the sight that was his living room. Sheets were everywhere, in fact, the floor was not visible. The linens were thrown to the far reaches of the room and a giant fort appeared to have been erected in his absence.

"John?" he asked the white mass that had taken over.

Scurrying noises could be heard and a black, curly head popped up between the seams with a beaming smile. "Father!" he said, delighted. "You're home! Come play!"

Sherlock frowned. "Where's your dad?" he reworded the question. More scurrying, louder and slower, and the detective closed his eyes to keep from laughing as John's head surfaced a few feet away, facing the wrong direction. The other man turned and smiled, waving a hand.

"Hello dear, come on in, it's really quite fun." His husband stated gleefully.

"Is it good for your PTSD to be simulating fort warfare?" Sherlock replied, earning him a pillow to the face by John. Removing the pillow he looked at the begging faces of his son and husband and sighed, removing his coat, scarf, and suit jacket.

Hamish glowed with happiness, his head disappearing for a few seconds and popping up in another corner of the room. "This is the library!" he said. "I made it for you so you can sit and be grumpy while Dad and I play."

"Excuse me?" Sherlock snapped. "I am not grumpy!"

"Well good, than you won't have to sit in the library!" retorted his son fiercely, head vanishing again. John was quaking with silent laughter.

The detective had a lot of limb, and it was a very humorous sight watching him untangle himself and stoop down to climb into the structure that had dominated his house. Sherlock was actually quite impressed by it, there were lots of intricate tunnels and good natural lighting.

John found him, smiling. "How do you like it?"

"Do we even own all these sheets?" Sherlock asked him, looking around.

"We made a trip to buy some more." Admitted his husband shyly. "Oh don't give me that! There was nothing else to do and I promised him we'd spend the night here." The detective was about to say something when Hamish teleported besides them, his eager happy face crawling at them full speed.

"I haven't seen you crawl since you were one and a half years old." Sherlock said, smiling against his better judgment.

John beamed. Hamish frowned, attempting to flip his nonexistent mop of hair (his Dad was now very punctual with the haircuts). "Father let me show you your room."

The detective was confused. "Aren't I sharing a room with my husband?" he asked, indignant.

His son raised an eyebrow. "Of course not! You're a servant because you came home late and we have no other positions open. You sleep in the servant's quarters." He stated firmly, trying to take his Father's hand and drag him down the tunnel system.

"Hal maybe he could sleep in my room as my servant!" John tried but they were already gone. He looks like he'd have to throw the fort into scandal by sneaking away in the night to visit his husband, er, _servant_. The possibilities for role-playing left the doctor's cheeks hot.


	20. Eleven

John tucked his head against the crook of his husband's arm, feeling Sherlock's chest expand with a happy huff. The head of curls moved downwards until the doctor felt lips on his temple. He sighed and smiled vaguely into the detective's skin.

"Do you have any idea what day it is?" the baritone of the man he was against rumbled.

"Not a clue." John baited.

Sherlock chuckled and his kisses trailed to his companion's mouth. "Well then I suppose I'll just have to take Hamish and go to the party without you."

"He's probably already up, it's a big day you know." John replied, turning his face up so that his husband was cradling him comfortably. "Not every day our only son turns eleven."

"How is it that as the years pass you just grow more attractive?" Sherlock asked no one in particular as he busied himself with allowing his hands to wander. "I don't think I was cast a fair lot in life, a son and a husband. God knows Mycroft thought I'd die alone in a cocaine induced coma."

The doctor frowned; he hated it when the taller man made such remarks. "Well we showed him didn't we?"

"Yes, in fact, I think I've won again. A healthy heir when my brother has yet to even marry." Sherlock seemed too smug. "Now I shall bask in the glory of my fortune." He said, delighted, as he dipped his head down to John's neck in a sensuous manner.

"DAAAAAAAAAAD! FAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAATHER! GEEEEEEEEEEEEEET UUUUUUUUUUUUP!" the sudden screech and banging on their closed door made both men jump horrendously. They barely had enough time to get into a more suitable position when Hamish burst through the door with wide eyes and a heaving chest.

Sherlock seemed rather disgruntled by the interruption but John couldn't begrudge the boy when such a day was upon them. "Er, good morning Hal." He said.

Their son clambered onto the bed, clad only in a button down nightshirt and boxer shorts. "Do you know what day it is?" he demanded, seizing his dad's face.

"The day we don't get to sleep in?" Sherlock guessed, ruffling the boy's hair good-naturedly and scooping him into his long arms to be mercilessly tickled.

"Perhaps the day we finally send you to the coal mines?" John added, joining in the assault.

Hamish's face was turning red from his laughing. "No!" he gasped. "It's-," gasp "my-," gasp, gasp cough "birthday!"

The detective stopped suddenly, furrowing his brow. "Birthday? I don't recall you ever having a birthday. John?"

The ex-soldier shook his head dutifully. "No, I don't think so, seems like he's pulling our legs. I recommend we send him to bed early with no supper." He said.

Hamish scrambled out of his father's arms and onto his dad's back. "No you guys! I'm eleven today!" he insisted, pulling a bit on John's ears.

"I'm sorry Hal, but I just think we would remember if it was your birthday." The man with the child on his back said sternly. "Sherlock, burn those fancy wrapped boxes in the closet, we won't be needing them."

The detective did a mock salute, standing up and attempting to make his way over to the door. Hamish squeaked and intercepted him, throwing the door open to have something bowl him over quite forcefully in a flurry of limbs, fur, and slobber.

Their son had been knocked over by a rather large bulldog with a bow placed haphazardly on its head.

"NO WAY!" Hal yelped, pushing the animal off to inspect it.

John stood up and moved to Sherlock, twining a hand through his own and grinning. "We know how much you've wanted a pet, he's yours so long as you walk and feed him."

From the floor, Hal put the animal in a chokehold. The dog wiggled a bit, his tongue lolling out the side of his mouth but it seemed content. The detective made a noise in the back of his throat that sounded like disgust as it drooled on the hardwood.

"What are you going to name it Hamish?" asked Sherlock, trying to avert his attention to the fact that the dog had only been officially his son's for a few seconds and he was already making a mess.

Hamish frowned. "Is it a boy or girl?"

"Boy." John replied.

The boy seemed deep in thought for a few moments, pulling away to search the bulldog's eyes for the answer to the question. "Bruce." He announced. "No, Jack… No! No, Samson. No wait I like Percival-,"

"The dog's name will _not_ be Percival!" Sherlock interrupted loudly, shooting John a glare as though he put the child up to it.

Hamish didn't even hear him, he was too busy cycling through names. "Trevor, Frank, Gordan," the dog's ears pricked at the last one and Hal decided to follow the trail. "Gordan, Gary, Gladstone-," the animal consented with a loud, happy _woof!_

John chuckled. "Gladstone it is then?" his son's grin was in danger of falling off his face as he pushed the dog off to go inspect the rest of the gifts. The shiny wrapping paper glistened invitingly and the boy went down the line, collecting and then dumping them on the floor outside the closet.

"Wait, wait, wait!" Sherlock interjected, separating Hamish from the gifts with his hand. "You're not opening anymore until the party tonight."

"What?" Hal exclaimed, displeased. "But it's my birthday morning!"

"Yes, and we bought you the presents." Replied John evenly, steering his husband and son out of the bedroom. Gladstone trotted alongside Hamish, breathing heavily. "However you can have a birthday breakfast."

Hal frowned, but eventually seemed to decide that birthday breakfast really was the best course of action and nodded slowly. "Will there be lots of whipped cream?" he asked suspiciously, trying to weigh his options. His father snorted, but didn't answer him; instead he sat him down at the kitchen table.

John took in the inventory of available ingredients and figured out pancakes was the best direction to move and so he gingerly began mixing together the eggs, flour, water, and milk. Sherlock wrapped his arms around the back of his waist and put his chin on his husband's shoulder. The doctor hummed blissfully, leaning slightly into him whilst Sherlock guided his hands through the motions.

Hamish had slithered out of his seat and was now on the floor, poking and prodding at Gladstone experimentally. The dog didn't appear to care much and simply flung all its weight onto the ground, his tongue lolling out as he panted. The boy thought it comical how the animal seemed to have a blatant disregard for anything that didn't immediately concern him.

There was a sizzling in the pan and it appeared Sherlock had untangled himself from John and was making bacon. Gladstone's ears perked and he scrambled to haul himself up and go sit loyally by the detective's leg, waiting expectantly for a piece. The tall man raised an eyebrow at the animal and went about ignoring him while the dog whined softly until Hamish plucked a piece of the cooked meat from a dish on the counter and gave it to him.

"You shouldn't feed the dog human food." John commented, flipping a pancake. The frilly apron was on now and he was quite absorbed in his work.

"It's my birthday though." Hal complained. "Can't he have at least a little treat?"

"We'll buy him treats, but the pork can't be good for him." His dad replied evenly, looking at the animal who was sprawled back on the ground, licking his chops of the grease.

Hamish seemed delighted. "He's endearingly lazy!" he declared happily, scooping Gladstone up (as much of Gladstone as he could anyway due to the fact that Gladstone probably weighed well above what Hamish's threshold for weight lifting was.) and snuggling him.

Sherlock looked over his shoulder, amused. "John we should've gotten him something a little more active. How do you expect this pitiful creature to keep up with the boy?" he murmured to his husband.

"He'll learn to manage." The army doctor said, watching Hal now slip Gladstone over and rub his stomach, much to the animal's enjoyment.

Once breakfast was all dished up and eaten, Hamish was more than content to dwell in the living room, attempting to train his new dog. Gladstone was defiantly sleeping in the sun that was beginning to leak in through the windows, much to his new master's frustration.

Sherlock had drifted to the couch in pursuit of John, who was typing on his laptop. The original blog he had started had evolved into what appeared to be a very intimate look at the life behind the consulting detective and his assistant, not only were cases recorded but many photos and updates of Hamish wormed their way into the blog as well. The sidebar proudly read "The Blog of John H. Watson-Holmes" as well, with a photo of a cranky Sherlock being kissed on the head by John.

The photo had been taken after they were first married, and the doctor had dragged his husband out to a pub with Harry to celebrate his sister's birthday and the taller man had been less than pleased. Harriet had snapped the picture with her phone, thinking the moment cute as John tried to cheer up the slightly intoxicated Sherlock and had emailed it to her brother. It was John's favorite photograph of them (well, except for the photos from their wedding, with their matching tuxedos and the detective's teary-eyed mother hugging John to the point where he was in danger of suffocating).

The text post he was putting online currently was about Hamish's eleventh birthday, attached was a photo of Gladstone and Hal laying on the floor in the sunlight. Sherlock was always curious as to how his son was so photogenic.

"Can you imagine that eleven years ago we were sitting in a hospital, nervous wrecks, waiting for our son?" John said, looking down at his husband.

Sherlock sighed, standing once more to go retrieve the book he had been reading (John was trying to find alternative things for the detective to do in-between cases besides shooting the wall and endangering his life via cocaine. The effort was hit-and-miss, as per usual any effort to get Sherlock to do anything) on the psychology behind serial killers. "I can do more than imagine because I was there, riding in the cab as you tore yourself apart, worrying that you would end up destroying our child's life before it was even born yet."

Hamish rubbed Gladstone's ears, closing his eyes and tuning out whatever conversation his parents were having. He was thinking about the presents that were sitting in the other room, and gauging by weight, height and general volume what they could be. He had been hoping for a chemistry set, and judging by the rattle from one larger box, he was guessing that maybe he had gotten it. His dog yawned, opening his mouth unfeasibly wide before looking over at Hal, his jowls sagging low and lubricated with saliva.

The day passed in this fashion, lazy and quiet while Sherlock read, John researched on the internet, and Hamish lounging on the floor with his new animal. The sun began to set and the army doctor stood, stretching with a wince.

"Right," he said, clapping his hands together. "Time to get dressed, your grandmother's probably got a ton of gifts for you and I know you're excited for that so let's get a move on!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, marking his book and heaving himself up. "Hamish I hope you know that you are the most spoiled child in all of London." He stated. His son grinned, dimples showing as he scurried out of the room. The men heard the bathroom door shut and the shower begin to run.

"He's never lacking in enthusiasm when it comes to visits with his Gran." John sighed as the pair entered their room. He pulled his ratty jumper over his head and began inspecting his closet for suitable restaurant wear.

Sherlock exchanged his current shirt for the tighter purple one that he knew his husband was a fond of. Hamish was heard banging about upstairs and the detective wondered what he could be doing that involved such a degree of noise.

There was heavy breathing as Gladstone dragged himself into the room and tried unsuccessfully to scrabble onto the Watson-Holmes men's bed. John intervened, still trying to do up his buttons with one hand. "Oh no you don't!" he said, steering the animal towards the door again. "Go on! Get!" Gladstone shot him a very mournful glance as he looked up the steps where their son was located, huffing dramatically as it took them one at a time in a lazy trot.

With a quick look at the clock, the couple finished the necessary altercations in good time. Sherlock turned to look at his husband, raising an eyebrow. "You look rather dashing Dr. Watson-Holmes." He commented.

John blushed, smoothing the lapels of the detective's jacket. "I could say the same of you, Mr. Watson-Holmes." He replied teasingly.

"What about me?" both heads turned to see Hamish leaning in their doorway, dressed in black trouser with a blue button-down and his hair immaculately combed and curled. Gladstone was sprawled behind him with a bowtie on his neck, slightly skewed.

"Handsome."

"Splendid." The parents each took turns complimenting. The boy smirked, pushing off the wall and sticking his hands in his pockets. Sherlock frowned, pointing at the dog. "He is not coming with us."

The smirk disappeared off of Hal's face. "What?"

John cleared his throat. "I'm sorry but I have to side with your Father on this one, no dog."

"But he's my dog! My dog my rules, you said he was mine as long as I fed and walked him!" the doctor's son complained. The boy folded his arms over his chest and narrowed his eyes. John looked at Sherlock and sighed.

Much to the men's chagrin when they hailed a taxi cab and boarded a slobbery but excited Gladstone jumped up with them, firmly fitted between Hamish's knees. The detective rubbed his temple, looking at his husband with a sour expression. "Really John, I've seen cucumbers with stronger wills than you when it came to parenting." He quipped.

Gladstone answered for John by drooling onto Sherlock's trousers. The detective was already plotting with ways to accidentally have the animal ingest poison when they stopped outside the restaurant. John's smile didn't dim even when his husband aimed the full force of his scowl at him.

Hamish decided that this had been the best birthday by far, and he hadn't even gotten to open all his presents yet.


	21. Unexpected Discoveries

**Hey guys! This one was a request from the lovely Writing Bird and I took a little artistic license with it. **

**Original request:  
>John and Sherlock talking about how Hamish is suddenly so grown up. They seem to have some running joke between them, which we don't realize until the end. It turns out that one of them caught Hamish wanking...<strong>

**Feel free to leave suggestions and always remember to review! Love you 5ever!**

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><p>Hamish was out with friends and John saw this as the perfect opportunity. No better one would surface for a while. As soon as the doctor got home he had beelined straight for the cleaning cupboard, much to Sherlock's dismay.<p>

"I see," he said, lips pressed into a thin line. "It's going to be one of _those_ days off."

John frowned. "What are you going on about?" he said, carefully diluting bleach solution in the kitchen.

His husband didn't look up from what he was doing. "Well, Hamish is out of the house and I was hoping we could've utilized this time to further experiment in disproving my male pregnancy hypothesis but by the looks of your cleaning gear you've decided to covertly attack our son's room."

The shorter man blinked. "Male pregnancy hypothesis?"

Sherlock sighed loudly, glancing up from his case file. "Go clean the bloody room John." He huffed.

"Right, you meant shagging didn't you?"

"Go clean."

"We can still shag if I've got time after I clean-,"

The detective looked up, exasperated. "For once having a spot in the armed forces you are the worst at following orders. Go. Clean. Your. Son's. Room." John took time to contemplate the pros and cons with marrying Sherlock Holmes as he climbed the stairs and threw the door to Hal's room open.

Debris was littered everywhere. The smell of decay hit the soldier first and he gagged, plugging his nose as he began to wade through the buildup of laundry that was overflowing from his hamper in the corner. His son's chemistry set was on the far side of the room, on the table where John used to do his medical work all those years before the night Sherlock invited him into his room. Presently, the table looked like it belonged in a burn ward on life support. There was more charred wood than actual table and some kind of sticky blue substance was dripping onto the carpet.

John consulted his cleaning caddy and went to work on the blue goo first. Well, to be honest, he tried to go to work on it, then aborted the mission as soon as he discovered that the blue goo was corrosive. He then put a bucket over it and called it good.

The violin started up downstairs, and John groaned. It was Solvegettio, which meant that Sherlock was upset and pouty. The doctor had to guess it was with the fact that he chose cleaning this wasteland over several enjoyable hours in his husband's bed.

Gritting his teeth and ignoring the shrill scraping of that damned instrument (the detective was playing it wrong on purpose, to irritate him) he set about tidying everything but the table with the chemistry set on it. He would get Sherlock to decontaminate that on a later date.

The clothes were the easiest to get out, and much to John's good luck it turned out the room was much cleaner after the dirty laundry had been extracted. The carpet was pulled out and thrown over the railing downstairs, to be beaten out, and then the doctor prepped his swiffer for the hardwood.

The floors hadn't seen a life without filth in at least nine years. Ever since Hamish grew old enough to blatantly disregard commands. The first one to be discarded was "clean your room". John threw out the seventh swiffer pad and wiped his brow. Sherlock had finished playing Solvegettio then, and the shorter man exhaled in relief, only to clench his fists as his husband picked another equally loathsome tune to screech along to.

"Almost done." He told no one as he set the mop aside to make his son's bed. Stripping the sheets and exchanging them, he looked, satisfied, upon the fresh bedding. The pillows were fluffed and then John put his efforts on the bedside table. There were only a few items skewed atop, an alarm clock, and a two semi-melted action figures. They were carefully thrown out, before the doctor moved on to the drawers.

Much to John's surprise, there was nothing in the first on but a magazine. Tentatively he picked it up, and then dropped it with a yelp when he realized what was in the magazine. The violin wailing stopped abruptly.

"John?" Sherlock asked at the bottom of the stairs. "John I'm coming up." Rapid footfalls sounded as the detective appeared beside him. The shorter man motioned helplessly to the glossy pages on the floor before him and made distressed noises. Sherlock raised an eyebrow and picked up the literature.

"Found that in his drawer." John said, rubbing his temple.

Sherlock looked up, his mouth quirking. "John this is pornography." He said bluntly.

John whimpered, snatching the magazine back and stuffing it in the bedside table like it was made of acid. He didn't mean to come across so squeamish but the thought of Hal looking at the magazine made him want to burn Playboy industries to the ground. Sherlock however thought this was the most entertaining thing he'd seen all day. "Stop it!" snapped John.

"It's a natural thing to happen at this age-,"

"I said stoppit!"

"John you're being unreasonable. He's a young man-,"

"Sherlock _please!_" John whined. "Not, not just now. I really can't believe…" he trailed. "I thought he was like you."

The detective's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean like me?" he said dangerously.

"Oh don't you do that." Shot back his husband. "Don't twist what I was saying into something bad. You know what I mean! Like you, like… like he didn't get off on shit like Playboy magazine!"

Both men sat down on Hamish's bed, thinking different completely different things. John's mind wandered to how the pages appeared to be stuck together and blanching at what that might entail and Sherlock was rejoicing that his son wasn't like him and was completely hormonal as boys his age should be.

"Well I think that's enough cleaning for one day." The doctor said in a small voice. "Male pregnancy hypothesis?" he asked.

Sherlock stood, offering his hand to his husband. "Of course." He said.

"Not one word to Hal. You hear me Sherlock?" John threatened as they walked out of the bedroom.

There was only a dark chuckle in reply.


	22. Jim

**A/N I'd like to apologize for my inactivity, writing has been difficult these past few months and I have a lot of unfinished stories and on top of that I'm trying to transfer my stuff over to AO3 because of the way this site is changing... here is another chapter that I've been writing, I'm once again terribly sorry for the wait, please enjoy and feel free to review or yell at me for not updating **

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><p>Hamish was woken up by the feel of rough hands on his shoulders, shaking him awake unintentionally. His first instinct was to flail but strong fingers held his legs and arms down before yanking him from his bed. There was shouting in the house, it echoed off the walls and held a distinctly foreign sound, these people were strangers to Baker Street. The person who was handling him pushed him forward down the direction of the living room and the younger Watson-Holmes stumbled before catching himself on the banister.<p>

His knees were shaking, a terror previously unknown to him had set in, the realization that these people were there to hurt him and his family. He set his jaw as firmly as he could and looked up to see the face of the offending party. A man, strong but lean with blonde hair and an unlit cigarette behind his ear, his blue eyes narrowed at the child before pulling a pistol from his waistband and motioning for him to turn around.

Hamish remembered his training, given to him by his father and uncle. _"Panic is unacceptable Hamish, this is of the utmost importance." _Sherlock's sharp tone flashed through his mind. _"You must never panic and always keep a level head in such situations. Do exactly as they say and wait because if you ever find yourself in such a position you must know that me or your dad are coming for you. All you need to do is follow their instruction and wait for us. We will always come for you."_ The boy found his footing on the slippery wood and began to climb down the steps, feeling the man's firearm prodding him in the back and he stilled his quivering lip by biting it. He mustn't disappoint his parents, they would be coming for him and he would shame them if they found out he had simply burst into tears like a child.

They reached the bottom of the stairs after what seemed like ages and the man seemed to have lost patience with his slow progress and settled for grabbing his arm roughly and dragging him the rest of the way to the living room. It was dark within the flat and people were milling about, pulling things from shelves or investigating the kitchen, Hal squinted into the blackness and tried to keep a headcount in case it was needed for later purposes. He was pushed into a chair and his hands were bound before a bright light was shone into his face.

"Where did you find him?"

"Just sleeping upstairs in his bed."

"The men?"

"Not here."

Hamish cocked his head, blinking furiously as he tried to adjust his eyes but it didn't help and if anything the light got brighter. Hands grabbed his face and forced it off to one side where the boy assumed a person was but as it was behind the light source he couldn't see it. "Are you frightened?" they asked.

"No." he answered, voice more wobbly than he anticipated.

There was a wicked smile in the reply. "Then you are a fool, where are your parents?"

"I don't know-," Hamish's retort was cut short by a heavy slap across his cheek, turning his head the other way and leaving him gasping at the pain.

"Where are your parents?" the question came again. "We searched the flat, they are not here."

At this Hal felt the tendrils of horror curl around his heart. Had his parents heard them enter and had they escaped? If they did then why did they leave him here? He looked back in the direction he assumed the person was and shook his head. The numbing feeling of what he knew to be panic was overcoming him. What if father had lied, what if they weren't coming… how could they know that he was in danger? "I don't know." He repeated.

This time it wasn't a slap, but a punch to his stomach. Hamish sputtered for air and his head lolled back with vain effort to breath. "I don't enjoy killing children, where are your parents."

"I told you I don't know!" he pleaded, father would be ashamed of him, he was panicking and that was unacceptable. He took a few deep breaths and tried to calm his mind. "Even if I did I wouldn't tell you." Hal was pleased with how brave he sounded, braver than he was.

The light was moved away from his face and the blonde man who had dragged him down the steps rubbed his cheek against his pistol, clicking his tongue in disapproval as he lit the cigarette that had been previously tucked behind his ear. "Hamish," his tone seemed gentler as he took a drag and flicked ash onto his dad's nice rug. "Do you know who I am?"

For all the fear Hal was experiencing he was still his father's son. "I believe that's an awfully pretentious question, don't you?" he quipped.

The blonde man chuckled. "You're a quick one." He complimented, lashing his hand out and smacking him once more, the smile gone from his face. "But now is not the time for jokes, little one. My name is Sebastian Moran. I have been sent here to find your parents but instead I found you. I will make you a deal, if you tell me where they are, or could be, I will not tell my boss that you exist. I have left information concerning you out of the reports because I believe it is unnecessary to my assignment but you refusing would mean you interfered with my mission and now my employer will have to know about you. You do not want him to know about you Hamish, because when he does he won't want your parents anymore, he'll want you." As if to accent that he poked Hal gently in the chest. "My boss is a very greedy man, do you know who he is, if not me?"

The boy shook his head, watching Sebastian Moran take on last drag off his cigarette before putting it out on the floor with his boot. "No I do not." He replied.

Moran cocked his head at him. "Then perhaps you are not as intelligent as I once believed, I've been watching you for a very long time and I would've thought you'd have picked up on such a magnificent rivalry. I have been wrong before however."

Hamish was curious now, it burned hot against his mind, overtaking the terror, he leaned forward in his chair. But before the question could leave his lips there was an enormous clattering downstairs and Sebastian Moran and his goons stood at attention, several firearms were pointed to the entrance of the living room.

A cell phone went off.

The tall man's eyebrows twitched as he answered it on the second ring. "Yes?" his tone was that of heavy frustration. "I told you to give me notice you idiot, is that them now? Call Jim, tell him, I have the boy." He looked over to Hal and smirked. "It'll be a surprise."

Hamish bit his lip and ever so quietly there was the sound of a key turning and light footsteps. "Sebby… one of your peons told me that you have a present." came a lilting singsong. The guns stood down and a figure came strolling up the stairs, a smile on his face and a finely cut suit on his back. The moment the two made eye contact he stopped moving, eyes going round with fascination. "My goodness, it's Christmas." He breathed, eyes flitting to Moran. "Adler and Holmes?"

"Watson-Holmes," Sebastian replied, pleased with himself, like a child who had solved a difficult maths problem and was awaiting praise. "Married."

"I've been gone an awful long time then, haven't I? Last I heard Mister Holmes was still very single and wasting away in hiding after jumping off a building." The man in the suit crept forward and raised a hand to touch Hamish, who flinched against his will. "Tell me, do you know my name?"

The boy shook his head, it had been different with Moran, he was clever, but not too clever. He was simply asking questions and expecting answers. This man, he was cleverer than any others he had seen except for father, he wormed his way into your mind and found the answers; the wasted breath for questions wasn't needed.

The man frowned, appearing puzzled at his response. "My name is Jim, I'm very happy to meet you, what is your name?"

"H-Hamish." His voice broke, Jim grinned as he patted his head.

"How lovely to meet you Hamish, you certainly are a delightful child." Jim cooed, turning to Moran. "Sherlock and John are not here, as I understand. First day back on the job and I have to deal with tardy victims. So sad, at least I made a new friend." He smiled over to Hal as he continued talking to Sebastian.  
>"Please leave a reminder to them that I'm here to stay once more and the games have begun." And with that the man was gone, giving the boy another shark toothed smile and skipping down the stairwell.<p>

Sebastian nodded after Jim and looked over at Hamish, raising an eyebrow. "Well then, I'm truly sorry about this." He murmured.

"Sorry about-," the butt of a pistol smacked him in the head and Hamish went limp.

The sounds of shouting made him come to, his chair had fallen over and there was the faint aroma of dried blood somewhere in the room. Hal crinkled his nose, he hated that smell and he was familiar with it due to his parents' occupation. Long hands grabbed his face and he recoiled, vaguely aware that his own hands were free and he began to claw at the person touching him. More hands pulled him up and he fought harder, his head hurt and his eyes burned from tears but he still found energy for his teeth to find purchase on someone's arm and his jaw clamped down.

"Hamish!" a voice snarled his father's voice. Hal opened his eyes and saw Sherlock, eyes crazed as he looked over his son; the boy quickly released his hold. His dad was there too, he heard his voice, high and frantic and very unlike the John Watson-Holmes he knew. "Hamish are you okay?" the consulting detective's voice stopped his thoughts from wandering too far.

"There was a man," he croaked out, trying to sit up. The side of his face stuck to the floor, he brought a hand to it and when he pulled it away there was red all over it. Blood, the dried blood smell was coming from the floor where he had been laying, Hal felt sick. "There were lots of men, they-they grabbed me. Wanted to know where you were." He was so confused, lights and policeman and more shouting. Sherlock didn't seem to be listening to the boy on the floor; he was yelling something at a crowd of people who stopped what they were doing and came to Hal's aid.

John saw his son moving and collapsed at the boy's side, hugging him fiercely. "Oh Jesus I was so scared." The man said. More and more hands were beginning to prod and Hamish wiggled away, his head was killing him, he pressed it and warm liquid trailed its way down the back of his neck.

"He's injured! I need medical attention here right now!" Sherlock demanded, and Hal felt his shirt being pulled off him and he had little fight left to resist, with a sigh and a lazy blink his clothing was stripped off, where gasps silenced the room.

The child looked up at their faces, all mirroring horror and disgust except for his father's whose face had gone completely white, devoid of all color and his dad, who seemed to have found it and his cheeks were heavily red. "What?" he asked slowly, following their eyes and on his left shoulder where acute pain was he saw scratches.

Only a few angry red lines that bled freely, in the vague shape of a J and an M, a note pinned to the shirt on the floor was snatched up by Greg Lestrade._ Please leave a reminder to them that I'm here to stay once more and the games have begun. _The Irishman's words rang in the boy's head.

"Jim, his name was Jim." Hamish said, his voice faint as he leaned against his dad, who was rocking him slowly and running his fingers through his matted hair.

"I know Hal, you were very brave, you did a good thing not telling them anything." John murmured, his hands trembling.

"I-I panicked. I let you down." His son slurred, still feeling shame for his inexcusable behavior.

Sherlock's face invaded his line of vision, serious expression fixed over the high cheekbones Hamish shared. "You did better than most would, I am proud of you." His father stated firmly. The man looked up, to a figure the boy couldn't see. "Please call my brother and alert him that there's been a break-in. James Moriarty is back."

Hamish couldn't recall another time he had heard his father so frightened.


End file.
